Losing Hogwarts
by Rufus T. Firefly
Summary: AU. Sequel to Founding Hogwarts. Rowena Ravenclaw battles with werewolves, sausages, romance, patriarchal repression and the sexual advances of an intoxicated Glaswegian hat, against a backdrop of revenge, deceit, lust and uncomfortable family visits.
1. Chapter 1: Mad

**Prologue**

Rowena woke early, as the first strips of winter sunlight fell across her pillow and coloured the room gold. So _this _was what a frosty December dawn looked like? Bugger it to hell and back on a particularly nervous donkey.

She rolled over, pulling the bed sheets tightly over her face until breathing became slightly difficult. Light still filtered through the blankets, but she ignored it.

Her limbs ached. Her head ached. Her headache ached. This was not usual. But after a night of gallivanting around Hogwarts in search of a Gryffindor-shaped werewolf, one couldn't expect butterflies and daisies. But that was _days _ago, now…

Yes – Gryffindor the werewolf, who'd somehow decided to forgo the "wolf" bit. Gryffindor the werewolf, who'd collapsed wearing nothing but the skin he was born in and, through general consensus, somehow ended up sleeping in _her_ room for the following three days. She wasn't sure she remembered agreeing to that, but there you go. Salazar could be very persuasive when he wanted to be.

And Salazar…

…Well, she wasn't going to think about _him_. Not now. It was far too early for that sort of thing.

And so, figure three: Helga Hufflepuff, step on down! Memory Lane awaits your badger-loving presence. Ah, dear Helga. Poor, dear Helga, destined to live out the rest of her days snubbing Godric's advances and devoting her life to woodland creatures in some kind of primitive nunnery.

Perhaps. You could never tell with Helga.

_And you could never tell with Salazar—_

Not him! Not now! Too early! There was _more _to her life than Salazar W. Slytherin, wasn't there?

Damn straight, there was! There were responsibilities and friendships and a dirty great castle with her name on it. Things to do, people to see. Brutal murders to solve. That sort of thing.

The sun continued to shine, in its usual stubborn way. Eventually accepting the majority vote, she emerged from her tangled blankets and welcomed the new day with some light blasphemy.

The floor was cold. It served her right for not buying rugs, she supposed, but really…tallest tower in the castle? In _winter? _Damn Salazar and his damn dungeons and his damn…house-elf fetish. She had half a mind to flog him. But she also had half a mind to lick his eyebrow, so she decided not to risk a confrontation just yet. _Not now. Too early. Too licky._

Gone were the days of, Oh Slytherin, what a big nose you have. Gone were the days of, Oh Ravenclaw, you couldn't charm your way out of a paper bag and it's a very small bag I'm talking about. Gone were the mindless insults. And she could _handle_ mindless insults…

She brushed her hair a couple of times and yawned, unattractively. Her gaze fell across the unconscious figure of Godric Gryffindor, which, on reflection, was quite difficult to miss, being about six foot seven and ginger. And wearing nothing but a pair of trousers. And being manacled to the floor, snoring quietly while charms and curses bounced off every muscle in an attempt to keep him unconscious.

Three sodding days he'd been asleep there. On the positive side, he hadn't turned into a wolf and torn her legs off. On the negative side, many were the times she'd forgotten his presence and fallen over him. On the positive side, he made an excellent doorstop.

She washed. She dressed. She thought. She stopped. _Too early_.

Alright, things to do:

_Find out who's running round slaughtering students once a full moon_. She glanced at the slumbering figure by the door, who said "hrumph" and snorted. She had a terrible feeling this would be achieved quite easily.

_Ensnare the large-nosed one whose name I shall not mention due to time of day._ Yes. Using feminine wiles, good grace, virtue, killing his girlfriend, et cetera.

_Snub Anatole Amery_. Gently, though. The man has pleasant thighs.

_Try not to destroy all possibilities of school's success. _Yes. Because she was not at home to Mr Cock-Up, despite him being a near-permanent lodger in her life up until now.

So…look at you, Rowena Ravenclaw. Barely eighteen and already you co-run the school, the staff and the cookery department. And you've faced about, oh, six near-death experiences? Jolly good. At least the holidays are approaching, and you can send the hyperactive little tits home…

And the students, as well. Oh dear me, I _am_ funny when I want to be...

It was round about this moment, as Rowena giggled quietly at her rather questionable sense of humour, that Godric Gryffindor sat up, slightly dazed, and said, 'Shit _me_, I'm knackered.'

Which was certainly a first.

But, oddly enough, not the last.

0000000000000000

**Chapter One: Mad**

Rowena still remembered the day of the witch-hunt, because that was the first time she'd successfully turned someone into a goldfish. She'd intended to disarm him, but the goldfish thing had basically the same effect.

It was said later – and privately, for obvious reasons – that the whole thing had actually been _her_ fault. Yes, a group of muggles may have invaded the castle, yes there may have been a hint of terror in the air and _yes,_ there could have been violence at any time. But it could have all washed over so peacefully if the damn girl hadn't turned him into a goldfish.

The "him" in question was a drunk man with a low brow and, as she remembered, a fine covering of orange scales. He'd barged into the classroom with a short stick in his hand which, Helga later explained, was intended to be a mocking gesture of some sort. And the next minute, he was swirling away down the latrine. Blubbing.

But that wasn't the event of the day, nor the issue that the assembled staff privately discussed in a state of worry and intrigue. The issue was Rowena herself.

'Well,' said Lady Summers, from within the soft confines of the headmistress' chair, 'who here actually knows about the…event in question?' Lady Summers was a shrewd, pointed woman, with an expression once generously described by Salazar as that of an angry cat licking piss off a bunch of nettles.

There was a vague mumble of "oh yes, I do". Most of them didn't, but were quite willing to bluff their way into finding out.

'Hm,' said Lady Summers, doubtfully. 'And did it appear serious?'

'Quite serious,' volunteered the wide-mouthed potions master, Professor Harper. 'Certainly legitimate, no doubt about that.'

'Displayed all the correct symptoms,' another teacher chipped in, 'the serene expression, for example – save for a few facial twitches – and apparent lack of control over her own voice.'

'Oh yes,' said Lady Summers, wearily, 'not at all unusual in Miss Ravenclaw, I'm afraid.'

'I am…not convinced,' said the wiry-bearded charms professor, Mrs Nesbit, 'not at all convinced, I'm afraid, that what she experienced was anything more than a cry for attention. Or a simple hallucination. Or...worse.'

'Worse?'

'Well…you remember her grandmother, yes?'

'_Eugh_, God.'

'Pardon?'

'I've just been a bit sick in my mouth.'

'Agnes Ravenclaw,' said another teacher, with a mournful shake of his head, 'now, she _was _insane.'

'Crackers,' said Lady Summers, with a wince.

'Loopy,' said Mrs Nesbit.

'Off her tits,' agreed Professor Harper.

The room was filled with a diplomatic pause. Then followed a quiet murmur of agreement.

'Perhaps not…_quite_ how I'd phrase it, Richard,' said Lady Summers, contemplatively, 'but not far off.'

'She showed me her haddock, once,' said the gamekeeper. Another diplomatic pause followed, tinged with just the slightest edge of disgust. Several imaginations actually shut down at this point.

Lady Summers hastily explained, 'Agnes collects stuffed animals, and holds them very dear to her heart. I believe – _hope _– that this is what you were referring to, Clifford?'

The gamekeeper said, 'Er…yeah, alright.'

'But surely,' said Lady Summers, desperately ploughing onwards, 'you're not suggesting that _Rowena_—?'

'Her parents weren't _completely_ together upstairs, either,' said Mrs Nesbit, 'gods rest them.'

'Oh, no,' said Lady Summers, 'they were just—'

'Free spirits,' Harper suggested.

'Yes – slightly eccentric, perhaps, but certainly not in league with Agnes. Besides, Agnes only became…_strange_ following her son's death.'

'However,' said Mrs Nesbit, who Lady Summers was beginning to dislike, 'it _was _Agnes who raised the girl. Besides, there is still the possibility that it was all a hallucination.'

'A strange hallucination,' said Harper, 'bearing nearly all characteristics typical of a psychic trance – no, it seems far too much of a coincidence. Recall, her great-grandmother on her mother's side was a psychic, professionally.'

'She was a fraud,' said Nesbit, waving a hairy hand dismissively, 'everyone agrees that, nowadays.'

'I don't,' said Lady Summers.

'And if it was neither a hallucination nor an early sign of genetic insanity,' Nesbit continued, ignoring her, 'then it must have been a mere joke – a way of getting attention.'

'That doesn't sound like Rowena,' said Lady Summers, 'she's really quite a sensible child.'

'She's always been quite content with the company of that _Huffpuffle_ girl,' said Harper, 'you know the one. Ravenclaws are far more likely to talk their way through a lesson than cause a big stir.'

Lady Summers agreed, 'She's not the kind to summon a donkey, whip off her shirt and sing an inappropriate song about—' She broke off and sighed. 'That bloody Slytherin boy – one of these days I'm going to kick him in the face.'

There was a mumble of sympathetic agreement.

Nesbit sat back in her chair, haughtily scratching her beard. 'I'm sorry,' she said, in a tone that implied the opposite, 'but I remain unwilling to accept the girl has even the smallest drop of psychic blood in her veins. I've been teaching her for three years now, and can say with some confidence that she is distinctly _average_. Knows all the theories, I'll admit, but has no…_gusto_. No confidence in her wand. I taught her brother, Richard – now, he's the opposite. Quite happy to curse his head off, but he's got no idea what he's meant to be doing. That's how people lose fingers,' she added bitterly, glancing down at her own deformed hand.

There was a common mutter of "bloody Richard Ravenclaw".

'So you maintain that Rowena did _not _glance into the future tonight?' said Lady Summers.

'Certainly,' said Nesbit. 'Boys with lightening on their heads? – Ambiguous nonsense. Either she wants attention, she's over-tired or…well,' she said, darkly, 'we all remember what Agnes did to poor Mr Green. And his nipple.'

As the room emptied, some time later, Lady Summers said to Harper, 'Has Mrs Nesbit always been so hairy?'

Harper said, 'I thought it impolite to look.'

And some time even later, when the excitement of the witch-hunt had passed and life continued as normal, Rowena had looked up from her homework to see the thirteen-year-old Salazar Slytherin watching her.

'They think you're mental, you know,' he said, with the smug grin that was typical of his young expression, 'the teachers. I heard them.'

Rowena set down her quill and said, 'What for?'

'For pretending you can see the future. We all know that's a load of bollocks.'

'But I _did_,' she insisted, rallying against the injustice of the unknown "we", 'I honestly did. Why would I make it up?'

'Because you're insane.'

'But I'm _not_—'

'Look,' he said curtly, rising from the seat he'd assumed, 'I haven't got time to stand here and insult you, I've got people to see. So: you're insane, you fancy Professor Harper's gangrenous leg and you've got mumps. I'll give you until five o'clock to think up some witty defences, and I expect them to be _extremely_ scathing.' With this, he stalked off.

Rowena stared after him for a moment or two, feebly mumbled, 'I have _not _got mumps,' and returned to her homework. A few minutes later she added, 'You big ponce.'

Back in the here and now, the slightly odder couple continued thus:

'Hurry up and get a shirt on, there's a good lad—'

'How long have I been asleep?'

'Long enough. Godric, you're going to have to help me here, you're bloody heavy—'

'Where am I?'

Rowena sighed and quit her attempts to lift him. Granted, it was natural for anyone who'd spent three days unconscious on the floor to ask stupid questions for about half an hour, but she had places to be! Some barely-conscious people are _so _inconsiderate…

'You're on my floor,' she said at last, as he groaningly climbed into a nearly-upright position, 'in Ravenclaw tower. The year is 1789, and you have been sent from the past to protect the virgin Empress, Cassandraneena—'

'What?'

'It's Thursday,' she said, quietly amused, 'and you fainted.' _For three sodding days. _In all fairness, Godric was a fairly big chap; he probably had a lot of faint to go around.

He shook his head groggily, and attempted to rub his eyes. There was a quiet clanking of chains, followed by a delicate pause.

'Ah,' said Rowena, 'yes. I almost forgot about those.'

Godric stared at his wrists for a while, his drowsy mind attempting to work a thread of logic into the situation. After a while, he ventured, 'I'm…manacled to the floor with thick chains, handcuffs and, er, leather.'

'Yes,' said Rowena, 'it's amazing what Helga keeps in her cupboard, isn't it?'

'Helga?'

'Yep.'

Godric glanced at the chains again, and gave them an experimental tug. 'Helga?'

'Yep.' The one whose curly yellow heart you broke, thou villain, thou. 'I suppose the badgers get a bit rowdy sometimes. It's always best to be prepared, don't you think?'

'Is she…ok?'

Oh dear. She much preferred his earlier questions. 'Well, you didn't rip her lungs out, if that's what you mean. Look, Godders, I've got a meeting to get to—'

'Wha'?'

'You – oh, for Christ's sake. Right, what happened was…'

0000000000000

Thursday was a good day for travelling, if you were the kind of person who could charm your way onto a trading cart, tell a few jokes, keep good company and tip the driver every five miles or so. Unfortunately, _this _man wasn't that kind of person. Accordingly, three miles into the journey he was punched in the teeth, thrown into a ditch and forced to run across six fields with a stolen chicken under his arm.

At the seventh field, his foot caught on a dead vegetable root and he slid across the mud, rolling and cursing for some time before hitting a tree. As he groaned, the chicken flapped happily and settled on a nearby gatepost.

The stranger sat up, dazedly, and clutched his chest. For someone who'd very nearly broken a rib and sprained at least two of his joints, he appeared quite perky. He jumped to his feet and, in a rather jovial if slightly winded voice, said:

'Well…bit of an overreaction there, I thought.' He sniffed away the indignity of the chase and patted Clarence's wing absentmindedly. Barren fields surrounded him, covered with the hard glimmer of ice and frost. The mud beneath his feet was stiff and unyielding. He could kill for a potato.

After a while he said, 'Righty-ho. Balls to that plan, then.' He scratched his bearded jaw and, seizing Clarence again under one arm, set off walking in what he hoped was a northerly direction. 'Can't be far now. Should be a cinch. And if we come to starvation, Clarence…' He raised his pointed chin nobly: 'We'll eat _me_ first.'

'Cluck.'

'Well, you needn't agree so quickly.'

Elsewhere, Xavier Malfoy and Sophia Bruntt exchanged glances. The latter said, 'He's talking to a chicken, isn't he?'

0000000000000

The Dark Forest was so called for a reason, as Salazar discovered; even hovering by the edge of the trees, a certain darkness seemed to fill the air. It was as if the shadows were something solid and breathing, and every noise and flicker from within was another part of the monster. Around him, the icy wind slapped at his skin and whistled by his ears, but inside the forest the air seemed oddly still. Like it was holding its breath—

Alright Salazar, said his brain, there's no need to be melodramatic about this. You'll be jumping about in garters writing poetry next, having sex with swans or whatever it is they do.

Still…it would be just like Ravenclaw to buy them a haunted forest.

_But it's not haunted. There's nothing in. __**You **__didn't put anything in – who else could? Cray is dead. Who takes their dreams seriously, in this day and age…?_

Well, you've always done so before, and they haven't been wrong yet.

_Shut up, brain._

Something crunched in the snow behind him. He inhaled sharply, but managed to smother his shock with hard logic, and turned around looking as placid as ever.

Helga Hufflepuff folded her arms. Under three layers of cloak and covered in snow, she looked exactly like a pissed-off snowman.

'Ah,' Salazar drawled, 'Hufflefuzzle. Just the bottom-feeder I wanted to see.'

'Save it, sausage face,' she snapped back, 'and explain, using a maximum of five words, the reason you're stood knee-deep in the snow in a mountainous region of northern Scotland in early December, on your own, looking miserable, staring at a tree.'

He raised a mocking eyebrow, attempting to look unfazed, and asked, 'Or…?'

'Or,' she said, simply, 'I'll cock-drop you.'

Salazar stared at her for a moment or two and, unsure that he really wanted to know, demanded, 'What in _hell_ isa cock-drop?'

'Do you want to find out?'

Bloody hell. 'Just bored,' he muttered, his tone suggesting that her very presence was aggravating the condition, 'thought I'd spend the morning exploring the territory.' Helga glared at him. 'To put it in to terms _you _might understand,' he continued, speaking very slowly, 'I'm doing the thing that _badgers _do when they rummage through the undergrowth. Badgers? Yes? Do you understand?'

'The correct term,' she said, curtly, 'is _snuffling_. And I'd appreciate it if you did it elsewhere.'

He scowled, which is quite difficult to do in gale conditions. 'And why's that, exactly?'

'Because you keep staring into the forest in a way that is very disconcerting and only adds to the high level distrust I already feel for you. Forest? Yes? Do you understand?'

'There's nothing wrong with looking into the forest—'

'In _this _weather, Slytherin?'

Outwitted by a Hufflepuff. His knackers were too cold for this kind of verbal sparring. Christ. Dinghy. 'Fine,' he muttered, 'if it's all the same to you, I'll take my snuffle elsewhere.'

He grudgingly began his return to the castle, closely following Helga. As he ploughed through the snow, he threw the forest one final pleading glance, as if looking for reassurance. But the forest hissed back.

Salazar froze. 'Ah,' he said, quietly. Helga also stopped walking, and threw him a confused glance.

'What?' she said.

He wavered for a moment or two, and said, 'I think we ought to walk by the lake.'

'Why?'

The forest hissed once more. Salazar said, 'Because there's a dead body over there, and…I think we ought to take a look at it.'

0000000000000000

Rowena passed a group of students in the corridor, resisted the urge to leg them up and thought about how much she utterly despised staff meetings. It was, she decided, _a_ _lot_. In fact, the only way she managed to survive each meeting was by adding to her already very detailed mental description of how utterly boring the task was.

So…the meetings were mind-numbingly tedious acts of drudgery and grinding dreariness that made Death's cold, fatal blow seem a welcome distraction from the achingly tiresome and uninteresting seconds of precious life she squandered by gracing these hoary, ancient, withered souls (who were completely undeserving of the mass amounts of time they absorbed) with her comparatively bustling and joyous presence.

They weren't actually _that_ bad, of course, but at least she'd discovered an exciting new grasp of adjectives.

She approached the staffroom door, noting she was five minutes late but not truly caring. Even without Godric's presence, Salazar or Helga would have begun the meeting, leaving her free to add to her list of Things I'd Rather Do Than Be Here.

But Salazar and Helga weren't within the room. Rowena stepped inside, noticed the fact and mentally cursed every fibre of their respective beings. And, too late, she attempted to discreetly exit the room—

'Ah, Miss Ravenclaw,' said some teacher or another, 'the cavalry has arrived, eh? Hnah, hnah.'

Hnah hnah? What the hell kind of laugh was that? '_Professor_ Ravenclaw,' she mumbled, reproachfully, 'yes, that's me. Er…'

'Is something wrong?' asked Anatole, standing to greet her.

Feeling particularly eloquent, Rowena said, 'Huh?' Fifty eyes watched her closely, with vaguely worried twitches.

He lowered his voice to ask, 'Have you any idea where the others are?'

'Godric's still…sickly,' she said, slipping into the pre-planned lie. She was fairly certain Anatole knew the truth of his condition, but she wasn't about to confirm it in a room full of prying ears. 'He's very ill; vomit everywhere. Yuk. Disgusting.'

'And Helga?'

'She's, er…she'll be along soon.' _She'd better be, or I'm castrating her badgers._

'And Slytherin?'

'He'll be along soon,' she said, definitely. Salazar didn't keep badgers; she was quite willing to cut out the middleman.

'Right.' He lowered his voice even more, so the rest of the room accordingly listened harder. 'Is everything alright?'

'Er…I think so,' she said, honestly.

'Oh.' The room's volume returned to normal. 'In which case, I think you ought to start the meeting.'

'_Me?_'

'You're the most senior member—'

'But I _hate_ these people!' The volume dropped again. So did the temperature. 'Shit.'

Anatole smiled sympathetically. 'You'll be fine, Professor. Just review things.'

'Review things?'

'Generally.'

'Good grief.' She cleared her throat a couple of times and, watched closely by the same fifty eyes – or was that fifty-one? – took up a place at the front of the room. Usually, this was Godric's place. _Her _place was in the corner, leaning slightly against the wall with a faraway look in her eyes, nodding occasionally.

And _there_ would sit Helga, to her right, and four seats down the row would sit Salazar, perched on a table. Generally, he was whooping. Sometimes he shouted "You tell it, sister" when Godric said something particularly interesting. The other week, he set his wand on fire and swayed it gently from side to side, apparently hoping Godric would ban him from the meetings once and for all. He wasn't yet successful.

Right – okay. Fifty-one eyes. She cleared her throat again, and shuffled some papers. Inspiration struck, and she pretended to scan them for notes. Yes. As long as nobody noticed the paper was entitled "Anatomy of a Pie" she had nothing to worry about. She cleared her throat again.

'Er…righty-ho,' she mumbled, taking half a step backwards until her shoulders made contact with the wall, 'let's review the events of the week. Does anyone have any old business?' She didn't know what this meant, but Godric began every meeting with it. 'Does anyone have any new business?' Silence. 'Righty-ho, then. Er…

'It has come to my attention that several members of staff have expressed their interest in an official Sausage of War sports club.' What else did Godric do? 'All in favour of an official Sausage of War league, say aye.'

There was a surprisingly enthusiastic chorus of "aye". Anatole found it necessary to cover his mouth with his hand.

'Oh,' said Rowena, 'my. That's quite…surreal. Alright, Sausage of War league it is. We'll arrange a national team, that sort of thing. Wednesday at six? Yes? Alright. Oh my. Well, the first rule of Sausage of War club is that we don't talk about Sausage of War club. Second rule of Sausage of War club is…no smoking. Aye?'

There was another enthusiastic "aye", and a few claps. Anatole apparently began to choke.

'Right then,' Rowena said, mind reeling, 'okie-dokie, in that case.' She glanced out of the window and said, 'Secondly, it's very snowy outside so I suggest the students spend their breaks either indoors or within the central quad.' Wow, that sounded incredibly professional. This was piss! All this time, she'd assumed Godric had some kind of magical quality, and all she really had to do was say long words! 'Thirdly, Professor Amery successfully completed the protective spell the other night, and as such we are invisible to muggles. Er, also you can't apparate anymore. Sorry. Fourthly—'

The door creaked open, and Salazar entered. Rowena very nearly vomited in shock, but managed to maintain her level of cool to continue, 'Er, fourth-erly, um…investigations into the murdery-things are continuing, so…' Salazar mumbled something to Anatole, who flashed an apologetic look at Rowena and followed him from the room. A few people watched them leave, and a low mumble began.

'Er,' said Rowena, over the noise, 'fifthly, er – that's a very difficult word to say, fifthly – er, we think the spell's worked because nobody's dead yet. Sixthly, I maintain that a war against sex and violence should be enforced on our students. Particularly our senior students, who I think are, er, letting their minds wander.'

A few heads turned to the window as Salazar and Anatole passed, striding intently through the snow. Rowena continued—

'Heather Bettany, for example – a seventh year, I believe – is _very _unfocussed.' The mumble increased. The gamekeeper stood up and exited the room, stating that his help would be needed. Rather pathetically, Rowena continued, 'I mean, it doesn't have to be sex _and _violence. Just sex, really. I think Heather Bettany is _very _distracted by sex—'

'She achieves consistently high grades in _my _lessons,' said an old woman – possibly the only person still listening to her at all.

'Well she doesn't in _mine_,' said Rowena, defensively, 'and where will she be without the skill of cookery at her disposal?'

The old woman muttered, 'You seem to get on fine.'

'Shut up. Er, seventh – sixthly? Erm…Look, would you all please…no?' Another teacher left the room. Another followed. A few more people turned towards the window. Under her breath and very quickly, Rowena said, 'I am the co-founder and headmistress of this school, and I will assert my authority. Now, either you all pay full attention to me this instant or I shall be forced to cancel this meeting early and find something more interesting to talk to – for example, the underside of a damp log.' She remained unheard. 'Very well, you leave me with no choice.' She left the room, grabbing a cloak as she did so, and ran out into the snow.


	2. Chapter 2: Dead

**Chapter Two: Dead**

They weren't difficult to find, huddled by the edge of the woods at the end of a long trail of footprints. Rowena was so busy thinking that she was bloody cold that she didn't stop to wonder _why _they were huddled around so conspiratorially, nor what misadventure might lead them to this area of the grounds. The only thought in circulation within her mind was one of, _My nip-nips are frozen, my nip-nips are frozen, my nip-nips are bloody frozen…_

The crunching of her footsteps alerted them to her presence, but only Helga and Salazar registered it; the latter sparing her a brief glance, and the former intercepting her before she reached them.

'Ro—' she began.

'What the hell is going on?' Rowena demanded, pausing to pull her cloak tighter around her chest, 'I'm frozen in places that shouldn't be frozen, Helly.'

'Ro, something's…happened.' She didn't continue.

Rowena glanced at the people ahead. She recognised Salazar, stood in profile, and the back of Anatole Amery. Another was the young gamekeeper, but the other was a mystery.

'Who's he?' Rowena whispered.

'Magical Creatures man,' Helga explained, absently. 'Er, Ro, listen…don't look down, will you?'

Rowena looked down. Following a pensive silence, she demanded, 'What. In hell. Is that?'

'I told you not to look down,' said Helga, weakly.

'What _is_ it?'

'Um. Possibly a liver.'

Rowena stared at the liver. She looked up, and stared at Helga. Helga stared back. She stared at the liver again. Then all thoughts of the temperature were replaced by the sudden onslaught that was _Rowena you are stood on a piece of frigging liver you idiot why are you still stood here Rowena it's liver you imbecile MOVE!_

'Holy Christ!' She leapt backwards. Helga nodded sadly.

'Twigged, has she?' asked Salazar, from afar.

Helga said, 'I think she's being sick.'

A loud _huuruguuueh _noise filled the air. Without looking around, Salazar said, 'Yep, me too.'

Rowena coughed and spluttered a few times, and respectfully covered the mess with snow. 'Eugh,' she said at last, 'but it's so—'

'Gooey,' Helga finished.

'Yeah.'

'You probably won't want to see the rest of it.'

'Rest of it?' she asked, weakly. 'There's more?'

'An entire freaking cadaver,' said Salazar, still staring intently at the corpse in question, 'slowly defrosting.'

'We can't tell if it's male or female,' said Helga, sadly, 'but it's definitely a student.'

Rowena's eyes automatically welled up, but she quickly wiped them dry. 'Student,' she said, 'right. Can't tell if it's male or female…?'

'It doesn't have enough face.'

'Right.' She trudged towards the group, preparing her stomach for the worst and successfully finding it. Helga rubbed her arm sympathetically as she declared, 'That's disgusting.'

'It is a bit,' said Salazar. He looked up and said, 'You're not going to be sick on him, are you?'

'No.'

'Good girl.'

'We think it's been dead up to five days,' said Anatole, still staring fixedly at the shredded body, 'though it's been frozen by the snow.'

'It can't have been dead too long,' said Rowena, uncertainly, 'it's still…'

'Gooey,' said Helga, again.

'But how can you tell it's been five days?'

Salazar assured her, 'You wouldn't want to know about the forensic process, Ravenclaw, trust me.'

'Oh, come on—'

'It involves the putrefaction of organs.'

'Holy Christ!'

'Exactly. And, yet again,' he added quietly, so only she could hear, 'we meet over a fetid corpse. It's like it's Our Song.'

'Shut up.'

'Every time I see a fetid corpse, I shall think of you.'

'_Shut up!_' Too late; she giggled. The gamekeeper threw her a reproachful look, so she mumbled, 'Sorry.'

'Probably hysteria,' Salazar volunteered, innocently.

'Shut up.'

Helga turned her head slightly to better examine the corpse, and asked, 'What…killed it, then?'

The professor for the Study of Magical Creatures said, 'Certainly animal, I'd say. No man could do this, unless he was in some kind of insane frenzy.'

'He or _she_,' Rowena corrected him, automatically.

'We're an equal opportunities employer,' Salazar added, with mocking sweetness.

'I see,' said the professor, disapprovingly. He had a large beard. 'Well, as for the type of animal in question, I'm afraid I couldn't say at this stage. The…person…appears to have been disembowelled very savagely, although the outer limbs and face have also been—'

'Yeah,' said Rowena, quickly, 'we can see that, thanks.'

'It's hard to tell if any of the body has been consumed,' he continued, 'although some organs are certainly missing. There doesn't appear to be a large amount of blood spilt, suggesting—'

'Ok,' she interjected again, 'that's great. You have a gander, write it all up and tell us what did it, ok? It's not Godric,' she added quietly, catching sight of Helga's expression, 'not if it was done within the last five days. He'd have woken me up, for one thing.'

Helga swallowed hard and nodded. 'Yeah,' she said, emotionlessly, 'ok. Unless he's insane, right?'

Salazar coughed, loudly. Barely discernable beneath the noise were the words, '_Volume_, ladies.' Helga obediently fell silent.

The Professor nodded, hastily scribbling notes as he did so. 'I shall, as you say, _take a gander_ at my own leisure. As yet, no creature springs immediately to mind.'

The gamekeeper asked, 'What do you want me to do with the body?' He had a pleasant, soft, _Scottish_ kind of voice.

'Well,' said Rowena, uncertainly, 'we'll have to tell the parents, I suppose, and let them take it away.'

'We ought to find out who it is first,' said the Professor, 'and what killed…it.'

'Oh. Yeah.'

'Just keep guard,' said Salazar, assuming control, 'and we'll make sure no one leaves the castle today. You and Professor Beardy here can investigate.'

Still fixated by the body, Anatole volunteered, 'I think I'd better stay, as well. There may be something I can do.'

'Make it more comfortable?' Salazar asked sarcastically. 'No, don't answer that. Hufflepouf, you find out who's missing from the school. Anatiddle, make yourself useful and scour the grounds for organs. Ravenclaw, you smell of sick. I'm glad I'm not kissing you today.'

Rowena jumped slightly and stared at him, throwing him a look that clearly said _shutupshutupshutupshutuppy._

'Sorry?' said Anatole, finally looking up.

'Nothing,' said Rowena, quickly. Salazar gave her an exaggerated wink. 'Shut up.'

'Sorry?' said Anatole again.

'Nothing.' She quickly looked away. Thirty seconds or so later, she laughed.

'That'll be the hysteria again,' said Salazar, authoritatively.

'That's what happens to women during the monthly passing of blood,' said the gamekeeper. The statement was followed by an all-around thoughtful pause that lasted just a few seconds too long.

'What…really?' asked Helga, slowly.

'It's what I read.'

Salazar arched an eyebrow to ask, 'Why did we employ this bozo?'

'Probably one of your friends who needed a favour,' said Helga, bitterly.

'Er, no, actually,' said the gamekeeper, with only the mildest hint of reproach, 'all this publicity and death stuff's attracting a fair deal of attention. Everyone's desperate to get a job here.'

Rowena frowned. 'That's sick!'

'That's publicity,' said Salazar, with a shrug.

'But it's sick! Perversely disgusting and—'

'Ravenclaw, you're stood on the liver.'

'_Ohforgod'ssake!_'

'Oh no sorry, my mistake.' He grinned. 'My, you sure can jump.'

00000000000000000

The stranger in the field was extremely disappointed to find himself surrounded by…fields. Fields and fields of fields, in fact. And not a drop to eat.

Except Clarence, of course.

'I'll be honest with you, Clarence,' he said, half-falling into a seated position, 'things aren't looking terrific.'

'Cluck.'

'You're quite right. Yes.' He sighed deeply, causing a terrible pain in his fractured rib, and flinched. 'Ah. Lovely.' They were under a tree. Although the barren branches offered no protection from the wind, it provided the only area of snow-free dirt to sit on, and was therefore much appreciated. 'Yes, we must keep up our spirits.'

'Cluck.'

'Not too much.' He retrieved a crumbled piece of oatcake from his pocket and laid it out for Clarence, who ungraciously ate it without so much as a thank you and went about his usual business of scratching the ground. The stranger stared at the remaining block of oatcake, considered the odds of surviving another fifty miles, decided what the hell, and shoved it in his mouth, chewing until his jaw ached.

'There we go,' he declared, once he'd finished, 'all gone. Cannibalism next. Ah, cannibalism. Don't over-romanticise it too much, dear boy.'

'Cluck.'

'Oh, _I'll _taste delicious, don't you worry.' He glanced up through the broken branches of the tree and observed, 'It's going to snow again soon.' He sniffed. 'I hate this country. Still, can't be long until we reach civilisation, eh? There's got to be a brothel around here somewhere.'

'Cluck.'

'Ah, the labours of love.' He somehow crawled to his feet, wavered for a second or two and staggered off in the same direction as before. 'Come, Clarence. It's an age-old story: one man and his chicken, facing trial and tribulation, fortune and adventure. Love and reasonably priced affection. Hah. All in the pursuit of happiness, yes?' Snow began to fall. 'Yes, Clarence. Let's have a little sing-song, shall we?'

'Cluck.'

'Yes, we must. _And I did walk through moor and glen, I searched the lifelong day! I found my love by wolf's dark den_…Good _god _I'm hungry…'

0000000000000

There was very little to do immediately after the discovery of a corpse. Eventually there would be letters and funerals and a continued investigation – but for now, there was nothing more than small talk, awkwardness and an overwhelming desire to clean things.

Furthermore, none of them wanted to be the first to speak. They accordingly marched through the snow in near-silence – Helga quiet and thoughtful, close to Rowena's side, and Salazar a short distance away, humming. Rowena hadn't realised just how far from the castle the body had been discovered.

Salazar continued to hum. Rowena turned to her friend and asked, 'Are you okay, Helly?'

'Hm?' She looked up and nodded. 'Yeah. Sure.'

Which meant she wasn't, of course. Rowena decided not to pursue the subject just yet. The silence returned for a while, before Salazar demanded—

'Aren't you going to enquire after the state of _my _mental wellbeing?'

She rolled her eyes. 'Alright, Salazar: are you okay?'

He sniffed dramatically and said, 'Well – I must be strong.' Rowena laughed, and he continued, 'I know dear Anatole relies on me and I…I can't disappoint him – I mustn't!'

Rowena laughed again, stopping only when she snorted in a way that was quite embarrassing. Then Salazar laughed at _her_, and Rowena laughed at being laughed at, and the only person not laughing was—

'What are you doing?' Helga asked, quietly.

'Er,' said Rowena, laughter slowly subsiding, 'well—'

'Ravenclaw seems to be sounding the mating call of the wild caribou,' Salazar interjected, giggling in a way that was alarmingly girlish, 'while _I _am acting as a pillar of strength during this difficult and turbulent time—'

'What the hell's wrong with you?' Helga demanded.

Very solemnly, he said, 'I am crying on the inside.'

Rowena shoved him. 'Helly, _are_ you okay?'

'Of course I'm not _frigging_ okay!' she yelped, also shoving Salazar. 'I've just seen my first _frigging_ corpse and my ex _frigging _boyfriend is the one who ripped his _frigging _chest open!'

'We don't _know_—'

'And you two are laughing like a couple of tits on hard liquor! What the hell is _wrong _with you, Ravenclaw?'

'Helly—'

Helga vanished, leaving Rowena staring vacantly after her.

After a silent moment or two, Salazar appeared, like the devil on her shoulder, and said, '_Frigging?_ You know, by Hufflepuff's standards that was basically a barrage of verbal filth.'

Rowena's mouth moved a couple of times, as if to frame a shout after her. Eventually she gave in, and asked the world at large, 'Did she just _second-name_ me?'

'I believe she did,' said Salazar, with something of a smirk. Rowena caught his eye, and his grin expanded still further; apparently, violent arguments were the main source of amusement in his life. Rowena's mouth instinctively formed a grin in return, which she very quickly suppressed.

'Oh dear,' she mumbled. When they were stood still, the world was almost stiflingly silent. 'Poor Helly.'

Salazar shrugged. 'She's overreacting.'

'I don't think she is,' said Rowena, critically.

'Whatever. She's the one running, tear-streaked, through the wind and snow – in the wrong direction, I might add.'

'Well…she's had a bit of a shock.'

'Yeah? So did you, yet you remain reassuringly stationary.'

'I _did_ throw up,' she reminded him, tactfully ignoring the "reassuringly" part of his statement. 'And the first time I saw a corpse, I cried for about an hour.'

'And threw up,' Salazar added, 'behind a bush, as I recall. Jesus, Ravenclaw – you're not very good at keeping your food down, are you?'

'It's often been said.'

He glanced back towards the edge of the forest, where Anatole, the professor and the gamekeeper were barely visible black blobs tending to a very visible red one. His voice seemed to change slightly as he noted, 'Another one gone.'

'Mm.' She turned away from the blobs in question and, rather miserably, asked, 'How long before their parents start bringing them home?'

'Good gods – you're not crying, are you?'

She shook her head.

'Good. I can't cope with hysterical females.'

Rowena thought, _You didn't do badly last time_, but didn't pursue the subject. Instead she said, 'I just love money, so very much. And these stupid kids don't deserve to get picked off like flies—'

'Interesting placement of priorities, there.'

'Shut up.' She sighed and continued, 'I have mental images of myself swathed in black, offering comfort to golden-haired children who weep at my lap. But the truth is that they're a bunch of ignorant, selfish bastards, the majority of whom haven't even noticed what's happening, and I'm about as motherly as a cold, wet fish.'

'Interesting image.'

'And now they're all dying,' she continued, sadly, 'and they'll all be taken home and the school will shut down and I'll have to marry a farmer and sew tapestries for the rest of my life in my brother-in-law's barn while struggling to suckle seven malnourished children and it isn't _fair!_ I can't even sew!'

He stared at her intently for a while, his brow furrowed while her rant echoed across the snow. Then he demanded, 'What in hell was that?'

'That was my future,' she explained, mournfully, 'in a nutshell.'

'I can't believe you can't sew.'

Rowena stared at him. It wasn't exactly what she'd hoped to hear.

'Even _I_ can sew, and I'm hardly the domestic type.'

Rowena continued to stare. Around them, snow began to fall. 'Well, yes,' she said, as the first flakes landed gently in her hair, 'but I have large, oafish fingers for chopping down trees and building things. You have thin, nimble fingers, for embroidery and beadwork.'

'Ah. I see.' And for the briefest, lightest of moments he touched her hand, before hastily snapping it back to his side. He quickly said, 'It's snowing. Come on. You never know – kids getting ripped to pieces…it might pass for entertainment in this town.'

00000000000000000

Xavier Malfoy gave a small yawn, ruffled his hair and poured himself another drink. He was privately convinced he was born without a liver.

From the next room – divided, thank gods, by a heavy wooden door – there came a few loud thuds, a strange gargling noise and a strangled cry of, 'God _damn_ my barren womb!'

He raised his eyebrows and continued to drink. So, the body was discovered – and about time, too. They still kept the werewolf, which was actually incredibly convenient for his Plan. And, best of all, was Slytherin…

A shrill scream sounded from the other room, followed by the crash of furniture. Xavier raised his voice over the clamour to ask, 'Everything all right in there, Sophia?'

There was another scream, and a strangely organic ripping noise. Then all was silent.

'Soph?'

'Perfectly fine, dear,' said Sophia breezily, emerging from the other room, 'think I've got it all out of my system now.'

'Excellent.' He stared at her for a moment, before quickly looking away.

'Oh dear,' she said doubtfully, catching sight of his expression, 'do I look a mess?'

That was quite difficult one to answer. After the briefest moment of deliberation, he replied, 'No, not at all.' It was almost true. Other than a couple of hairs out of place, her dress and make-up were as pristine as ever – they just happened to be smattered generously with blood. Though maybe "smattered" wasn't the right word – "smeared" was slightly more accurate. "Plastered", perhaps. 'I should get rid of him, though,' he added, gesturing to the punctured corpse in the other room.

'Oh, I will,' she said, absently.

'Who was he?'

'Postman.' She rolled her eyes and, in a voice far less relaxed than usual, added, 'He gave me _such _a funny look when I said I wasn't married.'

'Ah.' Of course. And now, dear Sophia, you're spreading bright red plasma over my dark green furnishings, but I'm not going to say anything because you are, after all, a psychopath. 'Well, I'm glad you feel better.'

'Much better,' she said, brightly, 'and it's much better than drinking all the time, like mummy used to do.'

Xavier, who'd long since learnt that any mention of mummies, mothers or motherhood would lead him down a dark path with no return, downed his drink and found the Happy Place.

00000000000000000

Entering the school in forced silence, Rowena was immediately enveloped by a huddle of cloaks, hats and beards. A common mutter of concern filled the air as the staff barged their way past her and towards a rather startled looking Salazar.

'What's happened, Professor?' asked an anonymous beard.

'There's been a death?'

'Was it murder?'

'The spell didn't work?'

'Who died?'

'It's fine,' said Salazar, currently forced against the stone wall by a worried mob and not terribly happy about it, 'everything's fine.'

'Professor Gable said—'

'—The students have expressed their—'

'—Was it a wolf?'

'It's fine,' Salazar repeated, attempting to shrug the assembly away from him while maintaining an established level of cool, but failing. 'Look, can you get off my cloak? It cost more than you earn in a year—'

Lost somewhere in the throng of the crowd, Rowena mumbled, 'I'm a teacher as well, you know…'

'What happened, Professor Slytherin?'

'Damn good one,' Rowena continued to mumble, 'chauvinist pigs. Death to the system!'

'What happened? Where's Professor Amery?'

'The gamekeeper said—'

'Dammit,' Rowena muttered.

'It's fine,' Salazar said, once more, 'just get the hell away from me, you plebs.' The crowd obediently took a step back, knocking Rowena to the ground gracelessly. Fortunately, her pain remained unheeded.

'What happened out there, Professor?'

Salazar waved a dismissive hand and said, 'It's fine, it's all fine. Professor Hufflepuff and myself just happened to locate a missing student. It's _fine_.'

'A student? How is he?'

'He's dead.' There was a momentary pause. 'But apart from that, he's fine.'


	3. Chapter 3: Tequila

**Chapter Three: Tequila**

'Son of a _fish_.'

Not the most poetic or coherent of thoughts of the day, but the first that occurred to Rowena upon waking and therefore certainly worthy of note.

A few seconds later, when consciousness dawned in the Ravenclaw universe, she mumbled the phrase aloud. Interesting use of self-censorship there. And just what was she cursing, exactly?

Was it the crisp dawning of a new day? The piercing birdsong? The glorious three hours of cookery that loomed ahead? Or the silhouetted figure of a man in the bay of her window?

Yes, it was probably the silhouetted figure of a man in the bay of her window. That was always a bugger to see at six o'clock in the morning.

'Jesus Christ – where did you come from?' she demanded.

Salazar half-turned to face her and, despite the fixed, concentrated look in his eyes, spared her a blasé little wave and said, 'Morning.'

'Morning. What are you doing?' She patted down her hair as he turned away, and performed the obligatory hoisting of the nightdress to ensure her good friends Suzie and Veronica hadn't invited themselves to the party.

(_Suzie and Veronica_…? What the hell was wrong with her brain today?)

'Rubbish view from the dungeons,' he said with a shrug, by means of explanation, 'can't see anything through the window except rats having sex with each other. And believe me, after a couple of hours that really gets old.' He shrugged again, and scanned the horizon in contemplation. 'All that damn squeaking…'

'I get the picture,' said Rowena, 'and it's horrific. Er, you _are _in my room.'

'It's alright, I've made myself comfortable.'

'So I see.'

'You ought to have a kettle going for visitors.'

'Er.' And here came the blush: beginning with the cheeks, spreading down the neckline and ending when it hit the toes – goddamn it. Seven years of lectures from Lady Summers had done the trick, alright. A man appears in her room and all she can think about is syphilis, babies and ravishing, although the ravishing actually didn't sound that bad. _Silence, brain!_

'You really should knock first,' she said, to cover the blushing. 'I mean, no offence, but crawling into other people's bedrooms while they sleep is a bit creepy. Not to mention dangerously unprofessional and severely—'

'Oh, you love it, you tart.'

That shut her up. 'Alright, what are you looking at, anyway? What do you want?' She grabbed a cloak from the foot of her bed and, carefully ensuring Salazar kept his back to her, swung it around her shoulders and clambered out of bed. She spared herself the usual narcissistic glance in the mirror and appeared at Salazar's side, vaguely wondering why she wasn't reprimanding him more severely under the circumstances.

He pointed beyond the lake, where the forest met the shallows and turned the snow to slush, and said, 'Look.' And there, sectioned from the public by a fallen tree, was the burning red stain in the snow.

'Oh,' said Rowena, unfeelingly, 'lovely. Thanks. Bird's-eye view. Gorgeous.'

'They've been doing tests and things all night.'

'How long have you actually _been _in my room, exactly?'

'But last time I checked, they hadn't come up with anything definite.'

'I mean, were you there when I snorted and woke myself up?' Rowena continued, mind still operating on a different level from the rest of the world. 'Because that's never happened to me before, honest—'

'I left the tests at about one o'clock out of boredom, so it'll be news to me if—'

'I mean, it damn freaked _me_ out. Sounded like a pig being slaughtered.'

'Am I interrupting your conversation with yourself, Ravenclaw?' he demanded, facing her once more. 'Because I can leave and come back in again, if you like.'

'Well, what are you doing in my room?! I could've been doing anything!'

Salazar snorted. 'Unlikely.'

'Hey – goddamn it, I could! I could have been entertaining a massive lesbian love-in for all you know.'

'And you think _that _would've kept me out? Goddamn it Ravenclaw, I'd have shaved my beard, nicked Hufflepuff's evening gown and introduced myself as Loretta to get in here!'

'Well, you missed it!' Rowena yelled back, vaguely aware she was entering dangerously immature territory. 'We had the love-in at ten, got really plastered and sacrificed a goat!'

'_Really!_'

'And then – and then we danced around in its still-warm flesh and did – and did all sorts of exciting things that you were in permanent danger of interrupting by gallivanting in here and sitting on my window seat! So,' she stuck out her tongue and offered her concluding argument: 'neugh!'

Salazar grinned, then spluttered his laughter. 'Female orgy and ritual sacrifice? Is that the extent to which your imagination can stretch? _That's_ your idea of an exciting time?'

'Well – yeah!' She was hard-pressed to add any more. For a woman who'd spent the evening knitting and reading until she fell asleep, she felt she was doing pretty well so far. 'You can't beat _that_.'

'Please! I know a good time. That's only the _warm up_ to a good time. A really good time would be – would be waking up on a desert island with six new wives, a husband and four children without any recollection of how it happened! Three dead, sixteen injured, the head of state found naked in your back garden taking shots of tequila from an open vein – _that's_ a good time!'

'That's a _disgusting _time!'

'You're just not ready to roll with the big dogs!'

Rowena doubled up and fell over. She could tell she was alive, because her insides ached. She was _alive!_ It was a good morning! Every morning should be like this morning – she could stay like this for a very long time –

'Oh – and we know who the dead student is.'

'God _damn _it!' Rowena sat up, all laughter sucked from her soul and her eyes narrowed in critical reproach.

Salazar performed his usual trick of raising one eyebrow quizzically. 'Beg pardon?'

She sighed. 'Nothing.' But her brain added, _Fuck off. I don't care. I'm fed up of caring. Couldn't I just go one morning without caring? God damn it._

'Second year,' he continued, unaware of her inner blasphemy, 'Thomas Jape. Still no word on what killed him or what – have I done something wrong?'

'_No_,' she muttered, climbing to her feet and tugging the cape around her body angrily, 'no, you're doing very well. Go on – tell me more about the tragic loss through grizzly circumstances, won't you? I know you want to.'

'Er,' he said, uncertainly, 'that's it, really—'

'Had a big family, did he?'

'Er—'

'Overworked but loving mother who would always spoil him with sweets when his bedraggled but attentive father wasn't looking?'

'I think so—'

'_Argh_. Legions of brothers and sisters? Yes? Cute little puppy called Snuffles?'

'Apparently—'

'One close friend to whom he meant the world? _Argh? _Yes? Of course! There would be, there _would _be a close friend! Short kid? Bit of a limp? _Argh! _Little bit of a lisp that meant he always had trouble making friends? Bit of a lovable loner? _Argh! _He'll be bloody distraught, won't he? _Argh._'

Salazar was silent, but stared at her for some time in mute contemplation while she seethed in anger. Very serenely, he asked, 'Why do you keep saying "argh" in that alarming way, Ravenclaw?'

Rowena sighed. 'I'm releasing my sorrow and fury in short, noisy bursts, Slytherin.'

'Ah.' He stroked his beard. 'Should I not have told you that depressing news at this point in the day, do you think?'

'It could have waited, Salazar, I'll be honest.'

'Right.'

'I mean, at least until after breakfast, or something.'

'Right.'

'I mean, bloody hell.'

'Sorry. Should we get back to the lesbian orgy? He said,' he added, 'not for the first time in his life.'

Rowena suppressed her smile in defiance. 'No. You might as well fill me in now you've started.'

Salazar shrugged, and sunk back into his seat by the window. 'That's all I know. Professor Beardy was brewing potions and reading things for hours, but I wasn't allowed a look-in.'

'Why not?'

'Our local necrophiliac chased me out of the library with a harpoon.'

'Pardon?'

He flashed the kind of grin that comes only from the satisfaction of insulting a fellow human being, and explained, 'Dear Anatiddle – I swear he fancies dead people. He made me leave the room after a while.'

'Fancies dead – what? Why?'

'I _might_ have suggested he stick a certain piece of his anatomy in another person's ear.' He shrugged. 'Very reactive human being, that man.'

'Oh dear,' said Rowena, weakly.

'He deserved it.'

'Why?'

'Cause he's an arse.'

'Ah.' _And that_, thought Rowena, with unnatural optimism, _could well be the Slytherin way of displaying affection._

'Well,' he said, in what was clearly _not _a display of affection, 'I'm off to bother Beardy for a while. I wouldn't mention it to Godders. And I'm not complaining, but your nightdress is so transparent that you needn't bother hoisting it up every two seconds. Good day.'

'Ah. Oh…ok.'

000000000000000000

Rowena joined Helga in the cookery classroom an hour or so later. Their argument wasn't mentioned. Rowena hadn't expected it to be, and wasn't complaining; lots of perfectly healthy people had left arguments unresolved throughout the years. People have been bottling up their emotions since the beginning of time, and it's never done _them _any harm.

_I mean, look at Salazar_.

Well…perhaps Salazar wasn't the person best used as a model of perfect sanity, now she came to think about it…

'The student,' Rowena began quietly, as the class began to work, 'he's—'

'I know,' said Helga.

Vaguely wondering if a certain Mr Slytherin had visited more than one bedroom, she asked, 'Who told you?'

'Anatole.'

'Oh. Did he mention anything else?'

'No; I think he was in a rush to get somewhere. Potato?'

Rowena obediently handed her a potato, which she proceeded to dice in a manner that Rowena simply had to marvel at. 'On a scale of one to ten, how bad a teacher would you say I am, honestly?'

'Honestly?' said Helga. This was not an encouraging reply.

'Well…not _too _honestly.'

'Fig.'

'What? Oh – right.' She handed her an avocado.

Helga shook her head disparagingly. 'You're a good teacher, Ro. You're just a crap – and I mean _crap_ – chef.'

'Well thank you, that's nice to know.'

'Cheese.'

'Cheese. See, I know a cheese when I see it; it's one of my more favourable qualities.' She sighed, and absent-mindedly began stirring something. 'All in all,' she said, 'not a bad school year so far. I mean, I'm sure more people than this died in _our _first year, I just never told anyone.'

'I don't really want to talk about it. Egg.'

'Egg. Just a couple of weeks 'til the kids go home, isn't it?'

'Think so.'

'That's good. It'll all get better after the holidays.'

'Bollocks.'

'Bollocks. Just what the _hell_ are you cooking?'

000000000000000000

Same stranger; different field.

It can be assumed that he is male – the beard gives that away – and the fact that he believes Clarence, a chicken in the midst of egg-laying season, to be equally male tells the world something about his intelligence.

Perhaps his protection of Clarence – basically a walking foodstuff – says something about his compassionate nature. Or perhaps it tells us something else about his intelligence. Either way, at this point in time he is practically on the verge of death, so the judgement of strangers is not something that holds any particular interest for him.

He is kneeling in the snow, because his feet are frostbitten. Clarence, unaware of this, pecks at his shoes. Despite the numbness rapidly spreading throughout his limbs and seizing his muscles, he retains the resiliently perky edge that has seen him through the past hundred miles of barren wasteland because, hell, it's quite a pleasant view from up here.

As he waddles through the snow, he breathes the words: 'I. Hate. This. Fucking. Country.' And as an automatic afterthought, spawned by generations of Good Breeding, he adds, 'It _is_ a nice day, though.'

He then looks around, realises he's moved no more than five yards in the past hour, and giggles, following which he immediately keels over and hits the frozen ground.

It is not long afterwards that he finds himself enveloped by warm clouds, bathed in golden sunlight and listening to a choir of heavenly angels sing. He thinks to himself, _Bloody Nora, that's a surprise_ and opens an experimental eye.

'He's awake,' says a voice; a lovely female voice, probably belonging to a long-gone saint or (hopefully) his very own naked tour guide to the cosmos.

'Poke him with something,' says a male voice. He's not sure he likes this voice.

'That'll hurt him.' _That's_ the voice! Oh, what a lovely, saintly, beautiful – argh! The bitch actually poked him! What a cow! What a whorish abomination!

He manages to say, 'Uh.'

'Oh dear,' says the angel, with false sweetness, 'did that hurt?'

'Uh.'

'Well, try being my _womb._' The angel pokes him again, harder. The stranger doesn't see how this response makes sense, but decides that now he's in heaven he probably shouldn't start questioning the word of the divine, because if he draws too much attention to himself they're bound to notice he really shouldn't be here.

'Don't poke him too much; you'll break him.'

'Try being my _womb_,' says the angel, again.

The stranger says, 'Uh.'

'Riveting,' says the male, dryly. 'Are you sure he's awake, and not just expelling his final breath?'

'Do you want me to poke him again?'

'No; just have a look at him.'

Suddenly, the warm clouds are removed from his vision; light floods in, blinding him, and the air grows colder. Unable to think of anything else to say, he decides to stick with a successful theme and says, 'Uh.'

'Oh yes,' says the angel, 'he's alive and awake.'

'Uh.'

The man says, 'Good. Cover him up.' He is plunged into darkness once more, and the sneaking suspicion steals over him that possibly, just _possibly_, he's not in paradise after all. Now he comes to think about it, the cloud feels suspiciously like a blanket and the chorus of angels sounds suspiciously like…a horse. Which would explain the reason heaven feels so much like a horse-drawn carriage ride, he supposes.

The stranger thinks, _Ah, shit, did I join another cult?_ but merely says, 'Uh.'

The angel says, 'Shut up, you horrible little man.'

'Leave him alone, Soph,' says the man, who is really beginning to grow on the stranger, 'he's coming around. He's been technically _dead_ for ten minutes.'

'Well he brought it on himself,' says the angel impatiently, and prods him again. The stranger is really starting to dislike her, and will probably not consider sleeping with her in the future even if she asks really nicely.

'There's no reason to use him as a human punch-bag, Soph, we need him. If you behave yourself, I'll buy you a _new_ human punch-bag when we get home.'

'Can we make it a girl?' asks the angel, excitedly.

'Yes, Soph. We can make it a girl. Just shut up, will you?'

'Ok.' After a few minutes of silence, which the stranger considers it a wise idea not to interrupt, the angel says, 'This had better work, Xavier. You'd better not be wasting my time again.'

'It'll work, dear,' says the man, 'I've told you it'll work. And this idiot will make it work all the better.'

'I hope so.' After another pensive pause, she adds, 'He reminds me of my last husband, you know.'

'As I recall, your last husband was a five foot tall sixty-year-old known locally as "the Bird Man".'

'Mm,' says the angel, thoughtfully, 'and he was so frightfully _dull_. Will he remember this?' she adds.

'Nope.'

'Then I think I'll have a peek down his trousers.'

'What? – Oh, for god's sake, Soph, not again...'

000000000000000000

In an equally sinister moment, Heather Marie Bettany rubbed shoulders with the one person who least wanted to see her. And as that person – namely Rowena Beulah Ravenclaw – muttered, 'What a bitch,' (not quite under her breath), Heather simply rolled her eyes with the natural superiority that comes from being the far more attractive person.

So she shrugged away the insult and navigated through the corridors, bringing beauty and light (etc.) to the otherwise dank and damp dungeons. When she reached the office of Salazar William Slytherin, she knocked briefly and entered.

'I'm working,' he said hurriedly, picking up a quill. He recognised Heather, and relaxed. 'Oh. It's just you.'

'Yes,' she said, with a feigned smile, 'it's just me. Thought I'd pop in and say hello.'

'Hello,' he said flatly, and resumed his work.

'What are you up to?'

'Marking.'

She giggled playfully. 'Yeah, right.'

'I _was_. Just – resting, for a bit. What do you want?'

The smile stayed the same, but the effort behind it increased. She shrugged. 'Haven't seen you in a while. Thought we could catch up.'

'Not much to catch up on,' he replied, shortly. He tried his best to look convincingly like he was marking papers, when in fact he was holding a month-old letter and a quill with no nib. A pool of blue ink trickled from the end, and bled discreetly over his desk.

Heather took a couple of steps towards him. He accordingly tilted the letter away from her. 'Yeah, same here. Just squandering my life away; you know how it is. Any news on those murders?'

'You tell me.'

'It's all a bit sordid, isn't it? If there's anything I can do to help, let me know, won't you? Salazar?'

He looked up. 'What?'

The playful look in her eyes died a death, but the smile remained. 'Never mind. I'll see you tomorrow.' She gave him a kiss, which was at least half-returned, and made an active effort to use her most attractive walk when exiting the room. She didn't know if her efforts were to any avail, but didn't get her hopes up.

That settled it, then…

She navigated through a further series of corridors, wandered up and down stairs until the place looked deserted, and tapped against the staffroom door. A few seconds later, it swung open.

'Oh,' said the professor, 'er, hello, Heather. Can we help you?'

'Yes, sir. I'd like to talk to you about…Professor Gryffindor.' She paused; not for dramatic effect, but because the whole thing suddenly felt a lot less fun than she'd originally imagined it. 'There's something I think you all should know.'


	4. Chapter 4: Brain

**Chapter Four: Brain**

'_Do-de do-do doo_.'

Godric glanced over his shoulder, waited in silence for a few seconds, and briefly giggled. He'd never realised _men_ could giggle before! He tried it again. It was…it was quite humorous, really.

He returned his attention to the unmarked work on his desk, which he loomed over in a fashion that was almost comedic. The frame of Godric Gryffindor looked as out-of-place at a desk as a llama at an aquarium.

He giggled at this image, as well. A llama at an aquarium! What would a llama be doing at an aquarium? And llamas are such comical creatures to begin with…

He felt distinctly alive. This was – this was rather a pleasant change! The large cloud above his head had evaporated; the cross on his shoulders had fallen off. The boulder around his ankle had rolled away, causing death or injury to seventeen people. He was, in some way, _freed_…

After a joyous fifteen seconds or so of silence, he attempted another, '_Do-de do-do doo_.' Amazing…and to think he'd never hummed a non-existent tune beneath his breath before! He felt he was doing rather well. '_Do-de do-do doo_' was actually quite catchy. Most other people wouldn't have created anything so catchy on their first attempt, he'd wager. Not that he _would_ wager. Although, why not? What better time in his life to begin a gambling habit?

Well, let's not go _too _far. Early days yet; you don't want to end up with a headache…

'_Do-de do-do doo_.' He hadn't even marked this essay! His mind was wandering. He kept giggling for no reason. Ah, the sweet joys of being human!

And yet, three straight days of unconsciousness had, ironically, really taken it out of him. He hadn't left his room since being returned to it. The more he thought about it, the more he longed to be outside and try all the things he'd never allowed himself to do before – frolic, for instance. He was fairly certain his life had contained a disproportionate amount of brooding thus far, and he was confident that half an hour or so of frolicking would put this right. He might even find time to skip lithely through the meadows.

What exactly did "frolicking" entail?...Giggling must be involved somewhere. And singing in a cheerful manner. And – and daisies, and things.

The box in his head marked "Slytherin" said, 'Alright, now this is becoming a little bit gay.' He decided to drop the subject.

He'd get outside again soon, though. And because old habits die hard, he'd probably chase some sticks. But at least he'd be aware he was doing it, this time.

Professor Amery – Anatole – had taken over his lessons, and all of Gryffindor house. This was rather nice of him. He liked Anatole, in a distinctly heterosexual sense. He reminded him oddly of himself, but noticeably shorter.

A few of the younger students had posted him hand-made "Get Well Soon" cards under the door, which he found to be rather touching. He wasn't completely aware of what they believed to be wrong with him, but the card that wished him a "speedy recovery from your explosive diarrhoea" suggested Rowena's excuses were becoming increasingly creative.

Yes…things were beginning to look up. Perhaps he'd contact his parents. Tell them he'd found a cure. Well he – he _had_, sort of. He was fully prepared to spend one week per month in a near-coma if it meant the end of…_it_. So it wasn't the most practical solution in the world, but he didn't care.

Most importantly – he was human again! For the first time in a decade, he was actually a human being! He wasn't a _wolf_ – he was fully _were!_

'_Do-de do-do doo_…'

He giggled again.

'_Do-de do-do doo_…'

000000000000000000000

Heather returned to the Slytherin common room wordlessly. Anyone who knew her well enough might have noticed something distinctly unsettled about her appearance, somewhere beneath the layers of casual self-centeredness. Fortunately, no one really knew her at all.

Magdalena Marsh, a raven-haired girl with eyebrows that made her look particularly special, was the first to notice her reappearance. 'Oh,' she said, briefly looking up from her homework, ''lo, Heather.'

'Yeah,' said Heather, making room for herself between Magdalena and Jasmine King, 'hello.'

'You alright?'

'Yeah.'

'This Transfiguration essay's a bitch, isn't it?' Heather didn't respond. 'Heather?'

'What?'

'Have you done your Transfiguration essay?'

The words seemed foreign. She stared at the ground, expression trapped somewhere between regret and disbelief. Very quietly, she said, 'I know who's died.'

'Oh?' said Jasmine, tuning in for the first time. 'One of Gryffindor's lot, is it?'

Again, she didn't reply. Instead she said, almost to herself, '_And_ I know who's killed him.'

'Really? Who?'

Heather stared at the ground.

'_Who?_'

Very slowly, as if the simple action required immense thought, she rose to her feet. She took a sheet of parchment from Magdalena's lap, hastily scribbled a few choice words across it, then folded it up so it couldn't be seen.

'What are you doing?' asked Jasmine.

'Now,' said Heather, 'which one of you has the least imagination?' Magdalena shrugged. Heather thrust the paper into her hand and said, 'Seal this with wax. Take it to Professor Amery at this time tomorrow, unless I tell you otherwise. Got that?'

'Er – ok, Heather. Can I read it?'

'_No_. Now I'm – I'm going out. It's very important. Don't tell anyone.' She left the common room, pausing only to collect her cloak and wand.

When the door slammed shut after her, Jasmine said, 'Think she's making it up again?'

Magdalena shrugged, and disobediently opened the parchment. She read it a couple of times, and frowned. 'That's weird. Why would she write that?'

Jasmine read the words over her shoulder. She shrugged, and sealed the note.

000000000000000000000

Rowena returned to her office in the early evening, laden with pies. Pies. She was beginning to hate the damned things.

Nevertheless, she dutifully lined them up along her desk and examined each one, annotating notes and grades as she did so. Three pies along the line, she found herself wishing for instantaneous death.

She glanced at the door. No one approached it. She glanced at the fire. Nothing.

Enough mourning the death of her social life – back to the pies. Back to the _serious_ stuff.

_Because when I was a little girl, I could only __**dream**_ _of owning an ugly castle that lures children towards an inevitable grizzly end. I've taken up a teaching post as the Angel of Death, for Christ's sake._

_The Angel of Death is currently employed as a pastry chef..._

_And not even a very good one._

Right, said her brain, enough of this. Let's do something productive before I run away with your sex life – which has, by the way, been living quite happily in the Bahamas for the past eighteen years without your knowledge. Maybe you ought to send it a postcard, or something? That's right. Act disgusted. You know it's true.

Deciding she wasn't prepared to take this kind of verbal abuse from her own brain, Rowena threw down her quill and left the office. The common room was empty, other than a nervous first year who said "meep" and hid behind a plant, so she passed through it largely unnoticed. And Helga always said she was the maternal sort. Ha. Bollocks.

The corridors were equally deserted. This was beginning to grate on her nerves. What was the point of owning a massive castle next to an ominous wood if no one was going to use it? Where were _people_ when you needed them? Where were all the _Beards_?

…"Beards", she decided, was quite an apt collective noun for the teaching staff. She'd never seen so much facial hair in her life. Even the women were lightly stubbled. Would that happen to _her_ one day? Was this the effect teaching had on the skin? She gave her neck an experimental stroke. Ah, no. Smooth as a baby's…something. Did she really want to compare her own neck with the arse of a young child?

Point was, it was pretty smooth. Smooth and lovely. "You've got a smooth and lovely neck, Rowena." Goddammit, why did no one ever compliment her neck?

_Calm down, Rowena. You're pacing. You're actively pacing. You know how you get when you pace up and down – it's not good for you. Now, shut up this mental narration and eat a sandwich, or something._

A sandwich? What good would a sandwich do? She was trapped in the Castle of Death and nobody even listened to her due to her complete lack of beard! She was a co-founder, for god's sake! Alright, she may not have made much of a _financial _contribution, but she'd have a much bigger say on how things were run if only she hadn't got lumbered with teaching stupid cookery and —

_Yes, but I do quite fancy a sandwich._

Yes…sandwiches are quite nice, aren't they? Ok: _first_ sandwich, _then _rant against the System. Throw things. Light oil rags. That kind of thing.

_Or – or perhaps just have a quiet word with somebody when it's convenient…or, you know, whatever. Sandwich, please._

Certainly not for the first time in her life, Rowena wondered what the hell was wrong with her brain. The distant memory of a young Salazar Slytherin appeared, and reminded her, '_They think you're mental, you know. The teachers. I heard them_.' Well…she had to admit, it wasn't a complete impossibility.

And then the more recent memory of a ravaged corpse – '_No man could do this, unless he was in some kind of insane frenzy_…'

She paused, briefly, and glanced at her hands. Now, that _was_ an impossibility. Because _she _didn't do it. And – and neither did Godric. Because it was, of course…

Well, it wasn't _her_, so…

_Sandwich. Sandwich, sandwich, sandwich._

Yes – sandwiches make everything better. And obeying the tiny voice in your head dispels all possibilities of homicidal mania.

Er…

_Just get me a goddamn sandwich._

Right.

She made her way towards the kitchens, and was relieved to notice an increased amount of students wandering the halls. A couple of them even registered her presence, which cheered her up a treat. Then a voice called out her name—

'Er, Professor Ravenclaw!'

And that _must_ have been a real person, because the voice in her head was usually a lot less formal. She turned, mere metres away from the kitchen, to face Anatole, who hovered patiently by a classroom door. He gestured for her to approach him. Rowena bid goodbye to her dreams of snack time and obediently followed him inside.

'Sorry to interrupt,' he said, hastily closing the door after her, 'but I think it's rather important that I speak to you.'

'Oh.' _Please don't let this lead to a proposition of sex, or I might just be forced to accept it. _'What is it?'

'I'm afraid it's a rather…serious issue. It, er, concerns Professor Gryffindor?'

'_Oh._ Right – I see.' And then sprang, briefly, the rather horrific mental image of Anatole and Godric in a passionate embrace. And "passionate embrace" was putting it euphemistically. She quickly dispelled the thought. 'About his illness, yes?'

'Yes. Afraid so.'

Thank God for that. 'Well, you…you know what's wrong with him, don't you?'

'Yes. And, er, I'm afraid I'm not the only one who knows it.'

'What do you mean?'

'It has been brought to the…attention of the, er, staff, and—'

'You told them?' she demanded, suspiciously.

'No!' He paused, significantly. '_I_ didn't.'

'But you're the only one who knows!'

'It wouldn't seem that way.' He looked very uncomfortable. 'Er. Needless to say, I'm not allowed to tell you who _did_—'

Rowena slumped. 'Anatole, I swear to God, I am not in the mood for this. Who else knows?'

He shot the door a conspiratorial glance and confessed, 'Heather Bettany _might _have—'

'That son of a bitch!' Anatole surveyed her in mild alarm. 'I'm actually going to break her nose! I forgot she knew—'

'But how _does _she know?' Anatole interrupted, before she had the opportunity to detail the various methods of torture she had in mind. 'I thought that only a select few people knew about it?'

'They do,' she muttered, 'in theory.'

There was in mutual pause, in which the two of them appeared to be thinking much the same thing. But Anatole was the first to speak it: 'She _does _appear to have some sort of dalliance with Professor Slytherin—'

'No,' Rowena interrupted quickly, 'that's…no. I mean – no.' _Urge to throttle: increasing._ 'He's – they're sort of – I mean, they're not actually communicating much these days. They're, er—' Perhaps now _isn't _the time to offer a full analysis of their decaying relationship. It would probably make her look jealous, or something equally unrealistic.

Anatole just stared at her, uncomprehendingly.

'I mean,' she continued, weakly, 'he's sort of' – (not _really_, but sort of, _sort of_) – 'with…you know. Er. Me.'

Anatole stared. After a brief pause, during which Rowena's blush practically smothered her, he said, '_Oh_. I _see_. Er—'

'I mean he's not really,' she added quickly, as the blush reached her toes, 'I mean it's more of a – of a – well, you know.'

'Yes, I see.'

_Of course you don't, you idiot. Even __**I**_ _don't. Oh God, did I actually suggest that…?_

'Well, congratulations,' he mumbled, clearing his throat uncomfortably. 'I certainly wasn't aware of it.'

'My point _was_,' she said hurriedly, deciding that the only way to now undo her rambling speech was to cover it up with even more rambling speech, 'that she must have heard it from someone else. Salazar wouldn't have told her.'

'Right.' He cleared his throat again. 'Well, that's all academic, now. What's important is that the entire teaching staff is now aware of Godric's illness and many are, naturally, jumping to conclusions.'

'Right,' said Rowena, in a very tiny voice.

'So you shall have to address this problem at tomorrow's staff meeting, I expect.'

'Right,' she said again.

'Since Godric himself is too ill to attend, you'll need some help arguing his defence.'

'Right.'

'Helga and – and Slytherin, I expect, will lend a hand.'

'Mm-hm.'

'And I shall do my best.'

Oral prowess having long-since left her, she squeaked, 'Okie-dokie.'

'Then, er…well, good-bye.'

'Toodles.'

Anatole exited the room, sparing her one final glance and, no doubt, marvelling at just what shade of magenta her flesh could achieve.

_OH kill me now, kill me now, kill me now…_

000000000000000000000

Sometime later, Helga Hufflepuff brushed her hair and felt quite good about it. Yellow – always yellow, never blonde – well, it wasn't so bad, was it? If you squinted (a lot) it actually looked quite…quite...

Yellow. And who doesn't like yellow?

She grunted and turned the mirror against the wall, mentally adding _Take that, you shiny bastard. _Smug mirror, with its insatiably reflective nature…

There was a rather tuneful knock at her bedroom door. No body else could knock like that. 'Hang on a second.'

She opened the door a fraction. Sure enough, there stood Rowena; expression caught somewhere between false perkiness, concern and sheer horror – basically what she'd come to expect from the girl who spent all her waking minutes with her foot in her mouth.

'Yes?'

Rowena hovered for a few seconds, before squeaking the word, 'Hello.' Helga noticed the dying blush across her face, and recognised a nerve case when she saw one.

'Oh dear,' she said, sympathetically, 'what have you done?'

'How dare you assume it's _my_ fault?' she asked, but weakly.

Helga rolled her eyes. 'Let's put it down to experience, shall we?'

'Can I come in?'

'Well…alright. But hurry up, because I want to get to bed soon.'

'It's only six o'clock, you know.'

Silence.

'Helga?'

'Oh God,' she muttered, opening the door and ushering her in, 'six o'clock bedtime. What have I become?'

'Your own grandmother?'

'Ugh.'

Rowena flopped down onto Helga's bed, immediately destroying the neatness she had so painstakingly created not five minutes before. Helga refrained from commenting, but made a mental note to mess up Rowena's bookcase next time she was in the area.

'Helly,' she said, forlornly, 'I've done a Bad Thing.'

'A Bad Thing?'

'A Very Bad Thing.'

'Oh dear.' She summoned a cup of tea – neither of them actually _drank _tea, but it made the situation feel much more complete – and sat down gently next to her. 'Tell me everything, so that I may mock you in the future.'

She sighed. 'Oh, it's nothing, really. I just told Anatole that Salazar was my boyfriend when he is in fact nothing of the sort – that's _bad_, isn't it?'

Helga tried to keep a straight face, but failed. 'Yes, Ro. That is a Bad Thing. Why the hell did you do that?'

'I don't know,' she said weakly, gripping the cup of tea tightly, 'it seemed like a reasonable idea at the time! I had to – I had to prove that he wasn't romantically entangled with Heather Bettany, you see?'

Helga nodded, slowly. 'So to prove that he wasn't going out with Heather Bettany, you merely stated the fact aloud and expected this to alter the truth of the situation?'

'_See?_ It _does_ make sense!'

'What a tosser.'

'Thank you.'

'How did he react to this news?'

'Stunned silence and occasional stammering.'

'Oh dear.' She shook her head, and pretended to drink some tea. 'Why do you even bother with Slytherin, Ro? The man's a cynical, hate-fuelled, hypocritical, lying, vicious, callous, manipulative sociopath.'

Rowena shrugged, because there are some things that can't be verbalised easily.

'And a complete arse,' Helga added, as an afterthought.

'Enough about my problems,' Rowena said, pointedly, 'you've got one, too.'

'An arse?'

'No. Well, yes, but that's an unrelated issue.'

'Damn nice arse,' Helga muttered, to herself.

'I'm sure it is, but let's focus on what's important.' She briefly relayed Anatole's information regarding Godric, and inserted a few possible suggestions for Heather's punishment for good measure. Helga stared at her, and pretended to drink more tea.

'Oh dear,' she mumbled, eventually.

'I know.'

'Do you think we should tell him?'

'Who, Godric? No. His personality is forever in a delicate balance.'

Helga nodded. 'Right.' Of course, when _she_ was upset she just ate sugar from a large bowl. Godric, of course, has to turn into a giant bloody dog and eat flesh. Typical. 'Then what do we do about it?'

'Well, here's my detailed plan of action: first, we go to the meeting and tell everyone Godric isn't a murderer.'

'Right. Then?'

Rowena looked thoughtful. '_Then_ we…go home…and…eat a sandwich.'

'And that's your detailed plan of action, is it?'

'That's the cut and thrust of it, yet.'

'Wonderful. Why do all your plans involve sandwiches, Ro?'

In response, Rowena pretended to drink some tea.

'Excellent. And how do we convince them he isn't a murderer, Ro?'

Rowena stared at the ground for a while, before weakly suggesting, 'Sandwiches? I don't know! We've just got to…be very persuasive, I suppose. _We_ know he isn't a murderer, don't we?'

Helga didn't reply.

'Well,' Rowena continued, determinedly, 'he isn't. He's _Godric. _And Godric is, if you don't mind me saying so, a great big beardy ponce.'

Helga sat back, and set her tea to one side. 'But he isn't though, is he? He's a werewolf. Everybody knows that. And the majority of these deaths have occurred during the full moon.'

'But he…he just _can't _have done!' Rowena insisted; not, admittedly, her most compelling argument. 'It must be something else.'

'Such as?'

She shrugged, pathetically. 'I don't _know_. It just can't be Godric.' She found herself suddenly nervous as she admitted, 'I actually started wondering if – if _I'd _done it, earlier.'

Helga spluttered. '_You? _You're the least homicidal person I've ever met!'

'Oh, I don't know,' she said, with a slight scowl, 'I find myself pretty tempted to make a Hufflepuff kebab right now. Stop laughing!'

'Sorry, sorry.' She sobered up. 'Sorry. But _why_…I mean, how could _you _have done it? You have the physical prowess of a wet sheep.'

'Thank you,' Rowena said, dryly, 'but please, stop your flattery. It's embarrassing.'

'Sorry.'

'It's just that – well, back at school—'

'Oh, god. Who did you kill?'

'_Shut up_! At school, somebody once told me that the teachers had been…you know.' She shrugged. Helga looked on, blankly. 'Well, to phrase it one way,' she continued, through a sigh, 'the entire staffroom had been discussing the possibility of me being completely off my metaphorical trolley.'

'_You?_'

'Mad as a mad hatter having sex with a mad March hare on the maddest Friday of the month of Mad-tober.'

'Why would they think that?'

Rowena shrugged. 'No idea! But I might be, might I? Even the sanest of people can be completely mental underneath all the sanity.'

'No need to worry there, then,' said Helga, plumping a pillow, 'you're far too insane to be mental.'

'I hate you.'

'We'll just have to…I don't know. Will Slytherin be helping?'

Rowena shrugged. 'Can't find him. But if he doesn't, I'll hurt his testicles.'

Helga winced, and muttered, '_Eyes_…_images_…_eyes_…_burn_…' until Rowena slapped her. 'Alright,' she said, eventually, 'tomorrow, then, we shall expose you for the lunatic you truly are.'

Rowena slapped her again. 'Shut up. I can't stop thinking about poor Thomas now, or his poor parents—'

'Who the hell's Thomas?'

Rowena paused on her way to the door, and explained, 'Thomas Jape – the body you found?'

Helga shook her head.

'Second year?' Rowena went on desperately.

'Nope. He wasn't Thomas Jape.'

'He wasn't? But Salazar said—'

'Nope.' She began the arduous yet oddly thrilling task of making her bed. 'Not Thomas Jape. Not even a student, actually; just a child who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

Rowena wavered by the exit. 'What, really?'

'Mm-hm. They found out this afternoon – probably comes from the village, or something.'

'Oh. Who _was_ he?'

'No idea.' She smiled, grimly. 'Cause for some celebration, isn't it?'

Rowena gave a thoughtful, 'Huh,' and left. Actually, it _was_ – and talk about depressing. Why would any young child be hanging around a school they didn't even attend? Who _was_ he?

As she made her way down from Helga's tower, the thought briefly occurred: _Dammit, Godric, if you've killed anyone I'll rip your damn ears off._

She endured a futile search for Salazar for half an hour or so, before deciding to call it a night.


	5. Chapter 5: Beard

**Chapter Five: Beard**

Heather made her way across the grounds when the winter sky was already black. Her breath was short but controlled; her entire body flooded with the odd combination of nerves and determination that made every step a shudder.

She was accustomed to having an audience survey her every move, and in this moment of anxiety continued to act as if this was still the case. She raised her chin and narrowed her eyebrows, despite the rising panic that shook her limbs. The voice of her conscience said, _There's nothing to be scared of. You're overreacting. _Her pulse wasn't listening.

The snow underfoot was thick, and with every step her legs were plunged calf-deep in ice. Her cape, now sodden with frozen water, slapped at her ankles. She sniffed in annoyance, so irritated by the pain that she almost forgot to be terrified.

She glanced back at the castle, and wondered whether anyone was watching her; by now, she'd be a small black dot in the ethereal whiteness. And if they saw her attacker, then – well, perhaps they'd get there in time, and—

She looked away again. The snow crunched like gravel. She'd hear them coming. If only the wind would die down, and she could forget the noises from the forest…

She gave another unconscious shudder, and held her wand out before her. Best to be prepared. As long as they attacked her from _in front_—

00000000

It was morning. Again. And she was alone. Again.

Actually, thought Rowena, considering her most recent experiences of waking, this made quite a pleasant change. Not that she had any objection to a certain Slytherin being in her bedroom, of course – but it was quite tiring to face so many _morning-afters_ without any benefits of a _night-before_.

She paused, mid-way through brushing her teeth, to think: _Oh, God. How randy am __**I**__?_

She decided to dispel the thought, for the benefit of her own health, and proceeded with her morning routine in silence. What she really needed to think about was the upcoming staff meeting. Something…_productive. _

Poor Godric. It would, of course, help matters somewhat if she could honestly claim to believe him completely innocent. As it was, she would probably be forced to dither around that point and hope for the best.

She paused again, mid-way through brushing her hair, to think: _Jesus tap-dancing Christ. Did I actually tell Anatole I'm having a relationship with Salazar?..._

_Do I now have to face the two of them in very close proximity for an extended period of time?..._

_Scabby-dabby flip-flop._

00000000

Evening quickly drew closer, dragging the dreaded meeting along with it. With only ten minutes to five o'clock, Rowena did the dignified thing and squatted behind a beloved drape in a desperate effort to conceal herself from the assembled Beards that gathered inside the staffroom. Somewhere along the line, she decided, her life had taken a very wrong turn.

Minutes later, when the corridor seemed hopelessly deserted, a familiar unfriendly figure finally strutted into view and Rowena made herself known. She _tried _to make herself known, at any rate – in reality, things didn't quite pan out the way she'd intended them to.

After a few confused seconds, Salazar said, 'Ravenclaw, what the hell are you doing to that drape?'

Rowena winced, but didn't reply.

Struggling to work a thread of logic into the situation, he took a step back and casually surveyed the scene before surmising, 'You're trying to mate with it, aren't you?'

After a dignified pause, Rowena said, 'I fell over.'

'In _that _position?'

'I was...squatting.'

'What?'

'Just leave me,' said Rowena, in a resigned heap, 'just leave me here, with my dignity.'

'Ah yes,' said Salazar conversationally, with a nod, 'I think I remember your dignity. He was a nice chap. What's he up to nowadays?'

'I believe he's gone to hell.'

'I _see_. Do you want a hand getting up?'

'No,' she muttered, 'I'm quite actually quite comfortable like this. I didn't even know my legs could stretch this far. _Yes_ I want a hand, you fool!'

Salazar chuckled. Following a brief period of "ouches", during which many limbs were untangled and one drape was completely destroyed, Rowena crawled to her feet and managed to mumble a thank you, despite the overwhelming urge to run at a brick wall.

'No problem,' said Salazar, 'really. Funniest thing I've seen all week. Were you _hiding_ behind your own soft furnishings?'

'No,' she lied, badly, before plunging desperately onto a different topic: 'where the hell have you been? I've been looking for you since yesterday evening!'

'Miss me?' he asked, with the kind of grin that made Rowena want to simultaneously faint and vomit.

'By mere inches,' she replied, somehow suppressing both urges. 'What have you been doing?'

He shrugged. 'Reaping the souls of the unjust, delivering the final judgements, leading the armies of the Damned – you know how it is. Busy, busy, busy…'

'I'm going to prod the hell out of you in a minute.'

'Yeah. Well,' he nodded towards the staffroom door, and said, 'let's save Rover's fluffy hide first, shall we? Then I give you full permission to have your sadistic way with me.'

'Uh.'

'Come on.' Her "uh" having gone unheeded, Rowena obediently followed Salazar into the staffroom with the weakest of knees, and quickly took up a position by Helga at the front of the room.

"Staffroom" was a generously misleading term to describe the location they used; in fact, it was nothing more spectacular than an ordinary classroom, only smaller and slightly more cramped. Squashed around desks in uncomfortable rows, the assorted Beards watched Salazar, Rowena and Helga with keen curiosity that verged on voyeurism. To Rowena's relief, only half a dozen or so staff members had joined the meeting – Anatole among them – rather than the entire workforce she had expected. She took one look at her audience, wrinkled her nose in distaste and took a self-conscious step backwards.

Salazar, however, showed no sign of such insecurity; instead, he removed his cape with a flourish and threw it across the face of the Charms professor, who didn't appear to notice.

And no one else but Salazar would dream of beginning a meeting with the phrase, 'Now then, my lovers – let's get to business, shall we?'

'Oh God,' Rowena muttered.

'We know why we're here, of course – because Man's Biggest Mistake becomes Man's Best Friend once every lunar cycle. All in favour of having Godders the dog-man strung up by his one remaining testicle, say "aye". No? Alright, my work here is done.' He sat down, looking proud of himself. Helga's jaw hung open.

After a stunned period of silence, Rowena ventured, 'Any…questions?'

A Beard said, 'Do you want me to start taking minutes yet?'

'No!'

'Who is this "Godders"?'

'Er…' She turned to Salazar and, lowering her voice as far as was humanly possible, said, 'I think we ought to try a different approach to this debate.'

'Really?' He scratched his head, absentmindedly. 'What was wrong with that?'

'Everything,' said Helga, looking about three minutes away from a stroke.

Salazar sighed, and resumed his position at the front of the room. 'Alright. Somebody talk to me.'

The minute-taking Beard raised his hand and said, 'Having been informed of Professor Gryffindor's _illness_, we consider it vital that our concerns are fully addressed before any conclusions are reached regarding his future treatment.'

'Future treatment?' Helga repeated.

'On behalf of the teaching staff,' the Beard continued, ignoring her, 'I have been elected to express these concerns before you.'

Salazar glanced at Rowena, who shrugged. 'Alright,' he said, 'blow me away.'

'Formality might be nice,' Rowena mumbled.

He obediently corrected himself: 'Blow me away, gentlemen.'

'_Uh_.'

'First of all,' the Beard continued, peering over his glasses in a manner Rowena considered far too cocky to be professional, 'we would like confirmation that Godric Gryffindor _is_, in fact, a werewolf.'

Salazar shrugged. 'He could just be faking it to get attention, I suppose—'

'Yes,' said Rowena wearily, speaking over him, 'he _is_ a werewolf.'

'You can confirm that, Professor Slytherin?'

'_I_ just confirmed it,' said Rowena, beginning to feel annoyed, 'thank you.'

The Beard spared her a calculating glance. Rowena performed the Evil Eye in response. 'Thank you,' he said, stiffly. He returned his attention to Salazar and resumed, 'Secondly, we wish to know how long he has been afflicted with this condition.'

Salazar sat back in his chair and began to twirl his wand absentmindedly between his fingers. He shrugged. 'Few years.'

'How many?'

'Since he was ten – about nine years.'

'Thank you. And what was the cause of his illness?'

Salazar spared him a withering look. 'What do _you_ think?'

'We merely wish to know the circumstances—'

'Don't know,' he said, through a yawn, 'next question.'

The Beard wavered, but didn't pursue the subject. Seated beside him, Anatole cleared his throat and raised a hand to ask, 'Do you have any reason to believe him dangerous while in human form?'

'Factionalism!' Salazar cried, with the kind of drama not often displayed at staff meetings.

'_He's on our side, you idiot_!' Rowena hissed, desperately.

'I recant my accusation of factionalism!'

'_Shush_!'

'He's not dangerous,' Helga insisted, speaking over the two of them, 'honestly – he's a complete softy.'

'Like a giant kitten,' Rowena agreed.

'He's a whiny little bitch, is what he is,' said Salazar, clearly relishing the situation, 'no pun intended. In fact, I've just remembered how much I can't stand him.' He grinned. 'This is _fun_.'

'Er…right,' said Anatole uncertainly, addressing the Beard, 'write that down – "whiny little bitch". And,' he returned his attention to the Founders, in their various states of embarrassment, 'have you questioned Gryffindor about the possibility of his involvement in the recent…accidents?'

"Accidents," thought Rowena, bleakly. That was a new one. 'I have,' she said, 'and he denied any involvement. Er, _strenuously_. He said he'd know if he'd killed anyone – that he'd remember something about it.'

The Beard gave a false laugh, as if to highlight the ridiculousness of her statement. For a moment or so she harboured the urge to launch at him over the table; fortunately, Helga knew her well enough to grab hold of her arm in advance, and she remained grounded.

'Of course!' said the Beard, blissfully unaware of the short-lived attempt on his life. 'What else would one say under the circumstances? I suppose you never considered the possibility he could be _lying_? Taking advantage of your ignorance of his condition? Perhaps covering a guilty conscience?'

'Well…yeah,' she muttered, feebly, 'but I ruled it out.'

'Gentlemen,' said the Beard, turning to the other staff members, 'I suppose I needn't remind you that Miss Ravenclaw is, in fact, a _woman_?'

'Uh-oh,' said Helga.

'Er,' said Anatole, uncertainly, 'that _is_ apparent, yes.'

While Salazar began to chuckle at the thought of what lay ahead, the Beard continued, 'I think it goes without saying, then, that her testaments on this matter cannot be taken in all seriousness?'

'Oh God,' said Helga, shuffling away from Rowena nervously.

'And why is that?' asked Anatole.

'Because,' said the Beard, with a compelling final argument: 'she is a _woman!_'

Helga, deciding there was a limit to how much she was prepared to risk for friendship, ducked. Salazar decided that, hilarious as the matter seemed to him in that moment, allowing Rowena to murder an elderly employee was probably the kind of thing best left to his imagination, and intervened.

And Rowena, deciding that today was _just _that kind of day, screamed, '_YOU SHALL DIE A PEASANT'S DEATH!_' and aimed for his jugular.

00000000

Snippets of conversation drifted in through the open window. None of it was particularly inspired. It was, thought Heather, the conversation of stupid people. People who have no idea what's going on inside this room; no idea what happens inside the castle on the hill. People who are quite happy not knowing _anything_.

But she didn't say this aloud. Instead she sat back in her seat and, squinting into the evening darkness, said, 'I can't believe you've surrounded yourself with these plebs.' The statement inspired no response. She continued to stare deep into the outside darkness, and observed the muggles going about their nightly business in a state of fascination and horror. She was actually within walking distance of…an _alehouse._ She could almost smell the poverty from here.

_Dear god, it better not linger…_

The room was lavishly decorated, as if to compensate for its outer shabbiness. Everywhere was velvet, leather and varnished oak; every surface gleamed with silver and polish. There were portraits where portraits weren't supposed to be. There were thick, patterned rugs along the floor and, because the room was only small, there were other rugs piled on top of them. The room was thick with darkness, interrupted only by the hot roar of the fire.

Outside, it began to snow. It almost looked refreshing.

Heather glanced down at her sopping wet frame, and couldn't help but notice that the heat of the fire was causing her to steam. This was not an attractive look for her. Even less attractive was the way in which the furniture seemed to dwarf her; _even less attractive _was the unsettling feeling that she'd escaped from the lion and jumped into a pit of snakes.

'_Bastard_.'

Oh yes, and there was always…that. That was quite unsettling, too.

She pushed the window closed as Xavier entered the room wearing, as ever, less than what was fashionable; in an age where fashion tended toward the over-the-top, Xavier stuck religiously to the basics. It counterbalanced his taste in interior design, she supposed. He reminded her of Salazar in that respect.

'Warm enough?' he asked lazily, stepping over Sophia's recumbent figure.

'Yes. Thank you.'

'Drink?'

'Alright.'

While Xavier continued to assume the role of the good host, Heather watched Sophia in mute fascination as she crushed a scurrying spider with a glass tumbler. She muttered something under her breath and wiped its broken legs across the rug. Xavier was either completely oblivious to her behaviour, or else sick of telling her to amend it.

'What's wrong with _her_?' she asked, as Xavier returned.

'She's in a Mood,' he replied darkly, handing her a glass of ruby liquid, 'don't worry about it. She'll be back to her usual bubbly self in no time.'

Heather tilted her head to watch her play. 'Is she completely insane?'

'Not _completely_.'

'Is she a pet?'

She asked it in jest, but Xavier replied in all seriousness: 'I suppose she is, when she's in a Mood. Her first husband has a lot to answer for.' He drank, and thoughtfully added, 'Or he _would_, if she hadn't dissected his body and buried it under a tree.'

'What did he do to her?' she asked, in fascination.

'That,' he said, setting down his drink, 'would be telling. And the last time I did that, she bit me. We have more important matters to discuss.'

Heather glanced briefly at the darkness once more. Everyone wandering aimlessly, quite happy not to know anything…

'Everard's dead,' she said, quietly.

'I know.'

'He was just a _baby_.'

'He was fourteen, Heather. Don't over-dramatise things.'

'But they killed him.'

Xavier considered his answer before delivering it: 'Are you sure of that?'

'Yes,' she said, some of the anxiety briefly returning, 'using the wolf as an excuse. They must _know _— what was that?'

Xavier chuckled at her display of nerves. 'Nothing to worry about; sit down.'

'What was it?'

There was another low groan. The thing she had first believed to be a sofa moved slightly and, rather alarmingly, yawned.

She stared. 'Who's under that blanket?'

Xavier grinned. 'No one important. We found him. You can take a look, if you like.'

'Oh.' She settled slightly. 'No, thanks. I should be getting back.'

'You should,' he agreed, draining what remained of his drink, 'they'll be looking for you. And don't come back again unless we send for you.'

She nodded, and dutifully added, 'I'm sorry.'

'Good.' He clasped a hand on her shoulder and, sensing unease, said, 'Not changed your mind, have you?'

She shook her head.

'Good girl. And you haven't mentioned your…_theory_ to anyone at Hogwarts?'

'No. I…' She paused to consider the sanity of her actions, before conceding, 'I _may_ have written it down, in case something happened to me before I spoke to you. I thought it'd be – wise.'

Xavier stared at her. His amiable expression remained fixed. There was something unnerving about that smile.

'Is that – is that alright?' she asked, meekly.

He released a deep breath and said, 'That's fine, Heather, that's fine. Well, I'll tell you what: if you destroy it before anyone has a chance to read it, I _won't _kill you. How about that?'

00000000

After a temporary interlude, during which time the Beard was bandaged and Rowena calmed down somewhat, the meeting was finally ready to progress. As everyone took their place in the staffroom, Salazar muttered, 'I always wondered how democracy worked.'

'And now you know,' Rowena whispered back. Warningly, she added, 'Be _good_ this time.'

'Oh, I will,' he said, with a grin. 'I'd almost forgotten how good you were at fisticuffs, Ravenclaw.'

'What?'

'Las time you went berserk like that, I ended up with a black-eye.'

'Oh.' She winced at the memory. 'Oh yeah.'

He lowered his voice until it was a delicate murmur and, expression suddenly serious, said, 'And I think you should know, before you start attacking people again—'

'I _didn't_—'

'—that we're in debt.' Silence followed.

When the words sunk in, Rowena whispered, 'What – how much in debt?'

He attempted to shrug casually, but failed. '_Very._ In debt. So, er, let's try and keep these bozos happy, shall we?' He sat back in his seat, and the sombre expression vanished. Rowena just stared at the wall.

'Well,' said Anatole, sitting opposite them, 'if we're ready to continue?'

Rowena mumbled something that sounded like "yes". _And he probably thinks we're whispering sweet nothings._

_How did I get in debt…? We had – we had money!_

'Then we'll resume the meeting as planned.'

_Please don't make me close. Please don't make me close._

The Beard cleared his throat. He'd taken a seat as far away from the mad female in the room as possible. 'The primary point I wish to make,' he said, still nursing his nose, 'is that people of Gryffindor's condition clearly aren't safe to work around others. If there is no cure for his illness, we believe that he should be removed from any situation in which he could cause harm to others. Considering the rather _potent_ fact that the majority of these murders have taken place during a full moon, and that no viable alternative suggestions have been made, it is of the opinion of the teaching staff that Gryffindor should be forced to abandon his position within the school. Or...' he paused, uncomfortably, before finishing, 'or _otherwise_ removed.'

A deep pause followed. Helga broke it.

'Otherwise removed?' she repeated, glancing desperately around the room. 'What does he mean? What does he mean, Ro?'

'What do you think he means?' Salazar replied, sharply.

'But—'

'As I say,' the Beard continued, 'under the circumstances, many of us feel that it would be _preferable_ to see him merely discharged.'

'But…' _I'm in debt. How did I get in debt? _'But we don't even know that he's to blame,' Rowena insisted. Salazar remained silent. 'Shouldn't we concentrate on finding out who did it first?'

Still refusing to make eye contact with her, the Beard replied, 'The staff would happily allow him to continue working here if they could be assured of his innocence in the matter, and if his _tendencies_ could be prevented in the future.'

'He stopped it once,' Helga pointed out, 'somehow.'

'_Once_ isn't quite enough, Miss Hufflepuff.'

'We'll prove he didn't do it,' Rowena insisted, with the uncharacteristic enthusiasm that the threat of poverty provides, 'if you give us…a while.'

'A while?' the beard repeated, with a disbelieving raise of his eyebrows. 'Do you really think that—?'

Someone knocked at the door. Salazar, clearly longing for an excuse to exit the situation, hastily left his seat and answered it while the debate continued. Over the argument, Rowena half-caught the discussion at the door—

'Ah…Magdalena, isn't it?'

'Yes, Professor. Heather's friend.'

'Of course. What do you want?'

'_I fail to see how the three of you can provide evidence—_'

'_Anatole will help too. Won't you, Anatole?_'

'Heather gave me this note. I'm supposed to give it to Professor Amery.'

'What is it?'

'_Er, I'm sure I'll offer my full assistance in clearing Professor Gryffindor's name, but—_'

'She said he has to open it today. I don't know why.'

'_Even so, with your responsibilities—_'

'_We'll manage, thanks._'

'Thank you, Magdalena. I'll see that he gets it.'

'I don't think you're allowed to read it, Professor.'

'Thank you, Magdalena. You can piss off now.'

'Yes, Professor.'

'_Miss Ravenclaw?_'

Hearing herself addressed, Rowena retuned to the more important conversation and said, 'Yes?'

'We will require these results before the next full moon, naturally,' said the Beard.

Rowena nodded. 'Yeah. I know what to do.' Huge lie, but there you go. The Beard continued to talk, but Rowena ignored him and instead returned her attention to Salazar, who was staring at the note in his hand. 'What is it?' she asked, quietly.

He looked up quickly, and met her eye. With a smile, he said, 'Nothing. It's just blank.' Rowena raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but he ignored it. He ripped the note in half with the same fixed expression on his face, and stuffed the remains in his pocket.

When Rowena rejoined the meeting, it seemed she'd missed something important because the Beard was making his dramatic exit, followed by his fellow members of staff. Rather annoyingly, Anatole remained seated.

'Well,' he said, as the door closed after the final Beard, 'I'm not sure how these things normally unfold, but I think a plan of action is generally required at this point.'

Salazar fell back into his seat, muttering, 'Yeah – Hufflepuff's about to produce a blueprint of the castle from her underwear while I grab my binoculars and shimmy up the nearest ventilation shaft. Jesus Christ…'

'Shut up,' said Helga.

Very reluctantly, Rowena admitted, 'Well – I _do _have a plan, of sorts.'

Salazar gave her a sideways glance. 'Yeah?'

She paused uncomfortably. 'It might require brute force.'

'Sounds great! Let's go.'

'Wait,' said Anatole, as they exited the room, 'what was that about brute force…?'

Rowena, leading the way out, made a mental decision _not_ to ask Salazar about Heather's mysterious note, nor the odd expression it had brought upon his face.

She glanced at his pocket, which gaped as he walked.

She wouldn't _ask _about it…


	6. Chapter 6: Babies

**Chapter Six: Babies**

The man opened his eyes. He wasn't in a field anymore; he wasn't in a carriage and he still wasn't dead. He was laid down, smothered by bed sheets. He groaned and shook his head, simply to remind himself of the coarse texture of the blankets against his cheek. It wasn't pleasant, but it was something.

It was hot in there. No one had changed his wet clothes, and the heat of the warming fire had caused them to dry like cardboard. He twitched his legs a couple of times, experimentally, and found that it actually didn't hurt that much.

With hands that felt like boulders, and joints that screamed in resistance, he made a muzzy effort to pull the blanket away from his face. After a couple of false attempts he managed to tug it down beneath his nose, and blearily surveyed the scene before him.

He seemed to be contained within some sort of palace; everything shone with polish and twinkled with gold, and oil paintings of ugly blonde nobility glared at him from the walls.

Half a bottle of his old friend Mr Wine (whom he had always imagined to speak with a French accent) smiled at him from the fireplace. For a second or so he considered saying hello, but his mouth felt to be full of cotton wool. And just as he began to consider giving him a friendly wave anyway, a blonde, thin figure strolled into view and seized Mr Wine carelessly by his neck, sitting down with him in the armchair opposite.

'Awake?' said the blonde man, pouring Mr Wine into a large, cavernous glass.

He attempted to annunciate clearly, but managed only a hoarse croak of, '_Y's_, th'nk you.' Good breeding, and all that.

The blonde man (he seemed to remember the name _Malfoy_) made himself comfortable. Arrogance dripped from every pore. 'And you'll stay awake, this time?'

The man nodded.

'Jolly good. Then say something.'

The man managed, 'Clarence?'

'Who? Oh, the…poultry. You'll see her returned.'

'_Him_.'

'Indeed.' He folded his legs beneath him like a mischievous child, and leaned back in his armchair. 'Or possibly we'll eat her. I haven't decided yet.'

The man groaned in resistance.

'Talk to me,' Malfoy commanded. 'Tell me all about yourself, or the chicken gets it.' Not the most convincing of threats but, from him, it _worked_.

00000000

Winter nights were long ones. It may only have been seven o'clock, but already darkness had settled in. Rowena, seated on the staircase that lead up to Helga's office, stared at it through the nearest window.

'And,' said Helga, holding the hand of a resisting first year, 'you're sure there's nothing I can do?'

Rowena shook her head. 'Not yet. Maybe later. Just concentrate on keeping out of his way, for the time being.'

'Easily done,' said Helga, with something of a sigh. 'I've already prepared discreet hiding places throughout the castle, just on the off-chance I see him coming and I need to conceal myself.' She winced. 'Is that weird?'

'A bit,' said Rowena, honestly.

'I've also started secreting rations of food about my person in case I'm ever forced to hide for extended periods of time.'

'That's weirder,' said Rowena, honestly. 'Where do you keep them?'

'Never you mind.'

'Good god.'

'What's your plan?' she asked, in a futile effort to prevent the list of possibilities currently running through her friend's mind. 'Is Slytherin involved?'

Rowena glanced briefly at Salazar, currently stood a short distance away and surveying the junior Hufflepuffs with great distaste, and nodded. 'Yeah. A bit.' Helga gave her a suspicious look, but she ignored it. 'We'll have Godric free and easy in no time, don't worry.'

'Wasn't worried,' she mumbled.

'Alright. Then I'll see you later.'

'See you. Come on, young man,' she added to the first year, still snivelling miserably over the wand stuck up his nose. 'That'll teach you not to pick, won't it?'

With a final despairing sigh for Hufflepuffs world-over, Rowena and Salazar exited Hufflepuff tower.

00000000

'This plan,' said Salazar, as they navigated through the ever-changing corridors some time later, 'it's a good one, is it?'

'No,' said Rowena, coming to a halt, 'but it's the only one we've got!'

Surveying her with great distaste, he mumbled, 'Well, _that_ was a cliché.'

'I know.' They walked on. 'Sorry.'

'Just don't do it again.' The staircase ahead of them ground to a halt with a loud scraping sound, the friction of the movement dislodging tiny stone fragments and echoing throughout the castle as melodiously as nails on a blackboard. As they descended the stairs, Salazar noted, 'We ought to get that fixed.'

'Moving staircases,' said Rowena, shaking her head. 'I mean, _why_? Why would anyone install them? I bet _I_ get blamed for that one—'

'Am I going to hear this plan of yours at any point, husband?'

'Oh yeah, the plan of – what?' She came to another halt, halfway up the stairs. The ground moved beneath them, grinding against the adjacent walls and causing her to sway slightly. Salazar smirked. She narrowed her eyes, and demanded, 'Did you just refer to me as your husband?'

He shrugged, still grinning, as the other staircases began to glide around them, as if choreographed. 'Yes, Ravenclaw, I believe I did.'

'Er.' She wavered. 'Er…why?'

He leaned against the banister, and replied, 'I thought _you'd_ know the answer to that one?'

Although the voice in her head said _Oh dear, oh dear_, she ignored it desperately and gave him a look of confused innocence. 'Me?'

'Any idea why dear Anatiddle would wish me his warmest congratulations on our impending marriage?'

'_What_?!'

He chuckled. 'I thought it was rather funny, as well.'

'Oh god,' she groaned, staring over the edge of the staircase, 'oh god. Er.' _Stop blushing, goddammit!_ 'Er, would you believe me if I said it was all part of a hilarious joke gone tragically, _tragically _wrong?'

He shrugged, and snickered. 'Would _you_ believe _me_ if I told you we were long-since married and expecting our first child?' Rowena stared. He added, 'Because Anatiddledid.'

Very weakly, Rowena managed to say, 'Wuh…?'

He grinned. 'Very gullible, that man.'

'You – told him – we were –'

'Long-since married and expecting our first child,' he repeated, proudly. 'Yep. Betty-Lou if it's a girl, Peggy-Sue if it's a boy.'

'B-but…'

'And we eloped,' he added thoughtfully, as the staircase slowed to a halt, 'if I remember correctly. Yeah – eloped over the border and were married by the local blacksmith. Pleasant fellow named Roger.'

'But—'

'We're naming our second child after him, if it's a girl.'

'But…' She snapped to her senses, and ordered, 'We are certainly _not _calling it Roger!'

'But I have my heart _set_ on Roger. He was such a nice man—'

'Well, you can go and marry Roger, if that's how you feel! And – and I am _not_ having a second child.' Apparently, her train of thought had long since derailed and veered into a cliff. 'I don't even want a _first _child! I'm a career woman.'

He shrugged. 'I _told_ him it was a happy accident—'

'Unfortunate mistake, I think you'll find.'

'Oh, don't say that about Betty-Lou—'

'We are _not_ calling it Betty-Lou!'

'You said you liked Betty-Lou!'

'I don't!'

'You try coming up with a better name, then.'

'Helena,' she decided, after only the briefest of pauses.

Salazar scoffed. '_Helena?_ You only chose that because it sounds like _Helga_, didn't you?'

'What? No!'

'You utter lesbian.'

'Why do I have to have babies in this story?' she demanded, slightly hysterically. 'How did this occur? I haven't even had sex yet!'

'Well, it was a miraculous –' He snapped out of it, and snickered again. 'What, really?'

'Er – what? I mean…shut up!' _Eject! Eject! Must…hop…over…side…of…staircase…_

'Well, your secret's safe with me, Ravenclaw.'

'Shut up! This is – this is irrelevant!'

'Not to Betty-Lou it isn't—'

'_Shushy_! I can't believe you told Anatole we were – we were — '

'Living the dream?' he suggested, with a particularly attractive grin. Rowena hit him. 'Ow. Well it's hardly my fault, is it? I don't know where he got the idea from; he just came out with it.'

'Irrelevant,' Rowena insisted, yet again.

The grin persisted.

'Just shut up.'

00000000

Heather was a girl with hidden depths and talents. They weren't, she had to admit, the kind of depths and talents she was particularly proud of, but they were always useful when one found oneself in a tight corner one was eager to escape.

She was, for example, rather adept at shooting the kind of glare that could render even the most level-headed and self-assured teenage girl uneasy, and could worm her way into the subconscious of any given male with only the lightest of flirtatious glances.

She was also very good at melting into shadows, forging a number of signatures and could kill a man in fifty-three different ways without raising a wand. She hadn't tried any of them yet, but she was fairly certain they all would work.

But unfortunately – _very_ unfortunately – there were still some areas in which she was tragically under-qualified.

'Talk some _sense_, you horrible little thing!'

'Whores!'

'Stop it! Stop that right now!'

'_Whores_! If ye wants anything from me, ye can bring me some _whores_! Ale!'

'But I don't _have _any whores!'

'Ach! Ye's a stingy little tart!'

'I'm _not _a tart! We had a deal, you scabby piece of crap—!'

'Ach!'

'_Don't touch my bottom!_'

'WHORES!'

She took the kind of deep, calming breaths that, under any other circumstance, would soothe the nerves and clear the mind. Trapped in a utility cupboard with an intoxicated accessory, however, the move yielded limited success.

Once she'd finished choking, and the stench of fried apples had left her sinuses, she grabbed Hat roughly by the rim and demanded: 'Where is _Salazar_?'

A sausage hit her in the face. She let out a strangled cry and rubbed the greasy imprint with the back of her hand.

'Wimmin!'

'How _dare_ you—!'

Another one quickly followed, catching her in the eye. As she turned away to avoid the inevitable onslaught, Hat continued to fire the meat at the back of her head until she scrambled to take refuge behind a long-abandoned mop.

'What the hell are you doing?!' she demanded, as another sausage flopped to the floor a short distance away.

'Ale!'

'_Stop it!_'

Hat did as he was told; through natural obedience or a lack of sausage, it was difficult to tell. Heather briefly considered that this was perhaps the most surreal experience of her short life.

'Miss Ravenclaw's orders,' Hat explained, self-righteously.

'Oh, yes?' Heather growled.

'Aye. Said I was to aim for ye's massive forehead if I should see ye ag'in!'

Heather's growl became a roar. She jabbed him viciously with the mop handle, prompting a cry of "ach!" and the firing of a final raw sausage. '_Miss Ravenclaw_ isn't here, Hat! We had a deal.'

'Ach…ye don't bring me wimmin.'

'And she _does?_'

'No, but she at least makes the effort to bribe me!'

She seethed, and pinned the hat down with the sodden end of the mop so that his mouth was covered. 'Where,' she demanded, levelly, 'is Salazar Slytherin?'

Hat gargled. When she wrenched the mop away, he dutifully muttered, 'Ach…put me on and I will tell ye where he ought to be.'

She grinned. 'Thank _you_.' Frowning slightly at the state of it, she nevertheless placed Hat delicately over her head.

The most noticeable thing about a sorting hat – other than it's frequent requests for ale, whores and women – was that, once it was on the head, the wearer was rendered completely, inescapably unable to _lie_. And thus, the discourse between the sorting hat and Heather's subconscious ran as follows:

'Ach…what do ye want, whore?'

'_I feel terribly offended when you refer to me as a whore, you illiterate piece of scum._'

'What do ye want, woman?'

'_Your use of the epithet "woman", while less offensive, is still lacking in the courtesy and respect I feel is owed to me. Nevertheless, I shall accept it_.'

'Er…what?'

'_I wish to know the location of Salazar William Slytherin, headmaster of Hogwarts._'

'Why?'

'_He has something of mine._'

'What?'

'_A note I addressed to Professor Amery, to be opened if I failed to return from my recent visit to Xavier Malfoy. I believe Salazar has the note in his possession._'

'Ach – so what?'

'_If he reads the note, I will probably die._'

'Jesus H Christ.'

'_Indeed. It is vital for me to remain at Hogwarts without detection or suspicion, and I fear that the contents of this note will foil these plans. I am not happy divulging these details; please tell me the whereabouts of Salazar Slytherin, before I rip you off my skull and set fire to you._'

'Snakey's on his way to the tower of the Big Red Lummox.'

'_Why?_'

'Christ knows. Ravenclaw's with him.'

'_Thank you, you putrid streak of animal urine.'_

'Ach, ye's welcome.'

00000000

'Go over this again,' said Salazar, pinching the bridge of his nose while Rowena's plan flew clean over his head.

'It's really very simple,' Rowena replied, annoyance beginning to replace the former feeling of humiliation. 'You're just not trying hard enough.'

'I doapologise.'

'First, we find Godric.'

'Right.'

'Then, we ask him to stay in his room until we can prove his innocence.'

'With you so far.'

'Then we use a spell to render him unconscious and immobile to prevent him from wolfing and killing someone.'

'Right…'

'And if he resists—'

'Yes?'

'—we ward him off with a pitchfork.'

'Right. Yes.' He pinched the bridge of his nose again. 'Yes, _that's _the part that confuses me. Why, dear Ravenclaw, would we need to ward him off with a pitchfork, of all things?'

'Because if he decides to turn into a dog and eat me, I want somebody standing by with a pointed object. Somebody with some kind of physical prowess and athletic skill.'

Salazar glanced down at his rangy frame and said, 'Moi?'

'Well…you'll do. And I'd rather stab him with a pronged agricultural implement than a piece of silver.'

'Don't see why we're bothering,' he mumbled, as they turned onto the corridor that led to Gryffindor tower. 'Be much easier to just chuck him out on his arse. We don't need him.'

'We need his money. And he's a wonderful chap we'd hate to see leave,' she added hurriedly, remembering herself.

Salazar mumbled a disdainful "hm". A short while later, he again mumbled, 'We don't need him. Could do this ourselves, you and me.'

'Ha. Yeah.'

'Well, maybe not.' He shrugged. 'Be more fun though, wouldn't it?'

'Yeah—'

'So what am I going to stab him with?'

Rowena coughed away the discreet blush that had started in her cheeks and said, 'Right.' She twirled her wand between her fingers, applying the required level of concentration that turned the instrument from a wand to a pitchfork. Her transfiguration skills were, admittedly, quite impressive. 'There,' she said, thrusting the implement towards him, 'weaponry. Don't use it unless I give the signal.'

'What signal?'

'Er…how about "stab the bastard dead"?'

He arched an eyebrow.

'Yep.' She reached for his right hand and, after a brief struggle, wrenched the wand from his reluctant fingers. It shot an oddly cold _zing_ down her arm, but she ignored it. 'I'll take that; I don't trust you to wield a wand around Godders without singeing all his body hair off.'

'Sweet memories,' said Salazar, nostalgically.

'Creepy,' Rowena corrected him. 'He looked like a boiled prawn with a cleft chin.'

'Doesn't he always?'

'Not quite so much.'

'_Salazar!_' Suddenly, Heather's voice rang down the corridors and echoed from the walls in an explosion of desperation and relief. Rowena winced, faced the wall and banged her head against it.

Slytherin took an involuntary half-step backwards as she approached them. His hand flew to the note in his pocket. 'Ah – Heather,' he said, evidently trying to suppress his surprise, 'you're…_here_.'

She reached them; spared Rowena a brief glance and devoted her gaze to Salazar. 'I need to speak with you.'

'Ah?' he quickly lowered the pitchfork.

'It's very important.'

'Right.' He glanced at Rowena, who shrugged. 'Go on.'

Heather glanced at Rowena. 'It's – it's _very _important.'

'Yes?'

She glanced at Rowena again.

'Er,' said Rowena, picking up a hint, 'do you want me to leave, forehead?'

'Yes,' said forehead.

'No,' said Salazar. Rowena obediently remained stationary, shrugging at the universe. She busied herself with examining Heather's face, and the unfamiliar countenance that had swept over it: as soon as she had arrived on the scene, Rowena had detected something inexplicably changed about her – Salazar, unfortunately, also.

Her eyes appeared, briefly, to narrow; not in anger, but as if suppressing a hurt emotion. The possibility was too bizarre to contemplate. Damning her irrepressible niceness, Rowena mumbled something inaudible and took a couple of steps back, so she was not _quite_ out of earshot, but near enough.

Not _quite _out of punching distance, but near enough.

'I have – something,' Heather mumbled, squirming uncomfortably, 'a - a question.'

'Yes?' said Salazar; appearing, Rowena was privately elated to note, more _teacher _than boyfriend to her.

'I think you have something of mine.'

'Yes?'

'A – a note. For Professor Amery.'

'Yes?'

'I think Magdalena might have given it to you…' Her voice trailed off; head bowed.

Not wanting to be left out, Rowena offered, 'Yes?'

Firmly, Salazar said, 'I don't have anything. You must be mistaken.' It sounded oddly like an instruction. Rowena allowed her eyes to wander to the crumpled shreds of parchment that still peered from his pocket. It occurred to her that Heather, though not arguing his point, seemed to know it was there, too.

So, she thought, admiring the complexities of the scene as it unfolded before her, what we have here are a couple of _champion_ _liars_. The girl with the ten-inch forehead knows that Salazar possesses, and has _read_, her secret message, although he refutes the fact. They both realise he's lying, but neither are mentioning it. And Heather's turned subservient all of a sudden…

_Because she's scared of him._

But that's silly. Why would anyone be scared of a Slytherin? She's obviously guilty of something. It's written all over her face. Particularly that vast stretch of shiny pinkness above the eyebrows and below the receding hairline…

_Heheh, I'm funny when I'm deducing. _

Back in the real world, Heather wavered for a moment or two, seemingly unable to decide on her next course of action.

'Anything else?' Salazar prompted.

She looked at his pocket. Very briefly. Very _frightened_. 'No, Professor. I'll leave.' She looked at Rowena, and back again. 'You needn't worry about me, I'm not going to—'

'Heather—'

She left, at speed. They stared after her.

After a moment or two's silent contemplation, Rowena demanded, 'What the hell was that all about?'

Salazar shook his head, still staring vacantly down the corridor. 'I have no idea. Are we going to see Godders?'

'Do you have her message, or – ?'

'Where did I put my pitchfork?'

'Salazar?'

'And there's a sentence I never thought I'd say—'

Rowena's heart sunk slightly. Should she confront the possibility that Salazar was keeping even more truth from her, Rowena, than he was from Heather, her sworn arch-rival since about, oh, three months ago? Should she consider the prospect that he and the aforementioned arch-rival populated an entire universe of secrets and priorities far and away from her own? No. Instead she went with:

'Er…have you ever noticed how massive her forehead is?'

'Hm?'

'Enormous,' she insisted. 'I mean, well above the average height of a – a normal forehead, you know?'

'Really,' he replied, apparently uninterested.

'You could sink ships with it.'

'Right. Shall we get on?'

'Really,_ really_ big ships—'

'Werewolves to anesthetise, that sort of thing.'

'Like, tramp steamers—'

'I'm not her boyfriend, you know.'

Temporarily caught off-guard, she wavered for a second, before doggedly continuing: 'Er – ocean liners, cruise ships…'

Apparently encouraged by the redness in her cheeks, he continued, 'I'm not sure when it happened, but I can't say that I'm emotionally crippled by the experience.'

'Ferries,' she squeaked, desperately, 'yachts, kayaks, house boats, trawlers—'

'I've never really cared about her.' He leaned casually against the wall, arms folded. 'Not in the slightest. More of an educational concern, with bells on.'

'Er – er…U-boats, barges, skiffs, flyaks—?'

'Sometimes I feel the need to deny certain emotions by covering them up with other, false ones. It's a time-saving habit I developed from my father, and I can pin it back to several negative experiences in early childhood.'

'G-gondolas, coracles, speed boats—'

'It's like I've said before, Ro – it's just _easier _with Heather. That's all.'

'—and – and _a_ _really big Norfolk wherry_!'

Then there came the silence. A silence uncomfortable on so many levels; not least because it alerted Rowena to the fact that she'd been recounting a list of water vehicles while she should have been saying things like "oh really, Salazar?" and fluttering her eyelashes in a fetching manner—

'Oh god,' she mumbled, as a general summary of her emotions.

Salazar grinned and straightened up. The note rustled in his pocket. 'It's not that bad, is it?'

_I don't trust you, I'm going to steal from you and by the way I'm in love with you._ The words shot through her mind with a painful, cold jolt before she had time to stop them; it was only through extreme force of effort that she didn't utter them aloud. Instead she winced and looked away.

'Hm,' said Salazar thoughtfully, passing the pitchfork from hand to hand, 'it seems no woman can look me in the eye today. It's my aggressive sexual magnetism, isn't it?'

She forced herself to exhale. 'Yes, Salazar. It's the magnetism of your eyes, attracting the iron filings in my knickers.'

He shrugged philosophically. 'Only you, Ravenclaw, could claim to have iron filings in your knickers and it be a completely believable statement. Now let's sort Godders out, shall we?'

They ascended the staircase to Gryffindor tower. As they did, Rowena mumbled, 'You know…I don't _really _have iron filings stashed in my underwear.'

'I'll require photographic evidence.'

Rowena turned red again.


	7. Chapter 7: Helga

**Chapter Seven: Helga**

Or:

**Helga Hufflepuff's Super-Special Adventures Through Space and Time and Things Like That**

Helga Hufflepuff was a girl with many problems; first among them was the name "Helga".

It wasn't, she supposed (while absentmindedly removing a wand from a first year's nose) the _most _terrible of names her mother could have chosen, but…_Helga_ _Hufflepuff? _The alliteration? _Really_, mother?

What kind of nickname could you take from it? Rowena had always used "Helly", which she couldn't honestly claim to be very fond of. When she brought this up, Rowena said she could refer to her as "Hell-beast", if she preferred? To which Helga had said, forget I mentioned it.

Besides which, people automatically assumed she was Danish. She remembered all too well the time her village had come under attack from Viking raiders, and a particularly dim-witted neighbour had dragged her through the streets and planted her in front of a heavily-bearded Dane, begging her to negotiate terms of release before running away, screaming.

Helga, thirteen years old and more concerned by the neighbour than the Viking, had simply shrugged and said "I'll give you his address if you like", and ended up teaching him how to make paper aeroplanes.

Lovely chap, actually…

'_Ow_!'

'Shush.' She gave the wand a final tug, having safely established that it wouldn't singe his nasal hair or anything similar, and presented the wand to its owner. 'There you go, Dennis. And what have we learned about picking our nosey-wosies?'

Dennis, who was old enough to know the definition of "patronised", reluctantly mumbled, 'Paper is better than fingers; fingers are better than wands.'

'…_And?_'

He sighed. 'And if I do it again, Professor Hufflepuff's going to smash a bottle over my head.'

'That's right,' she beamed, patting his hair affectionately. 'Nice to see you've learned your lesson. Now, I think it's past your bedtime.'

Dennis' face crumpled at the injustice. 'But it's only half-past seven!'

Helga, still beaming, raised a warning finger. 'What _else_ did I teach you, Dennis?'

Dennis sighed again, but obediently recited, 'If I argue with teacher, Professor Hufflepuff will string my body from the castle walls and deny all involvement.'

'Very good! Now; bedtime for you.'

'Yes, Professor.' Dennis reluctantly traipsed away, wondering the precise likelihood of Miss Hufflepuff _actually _inflicting Grievous Bodily Harm upon him. He didn't like the odds. Alright, so the worst punishment she'd ever _actually _submitted anyone to was an hour-long lecture on the mating habits of European badgers, but still…

Anyway, it was hard to dislike Professor Hufflepuff, from a pupil's point of view. Mainly because she genuinely didn't care what kind of grades you achieved, as long as you were trying your best. Also because anyone accused of bullying was taken into the Forbidden Forest for an hour of badger spotting until they emerged a reformed character.

Helga watched Dennis leave, breathing a contented sigh at a job well done. She took a seat – her current location being one of many vacant classrooms on the second floor – and sighed thoughtfully.

And now…what to do, what to do? She checked the clock, confirming the time Dennis had given, and wondered what Rowena was up to. Probably embarrassing herself somewhere in a futile attempt to avoid further embarrassment somewhere else. (In fact, at that precise moment in time, Rowena was just listing "U-boats, barges, skiffs and flyaks", so no surprise there.)

She wondered what had happened to Godric…

…and if it would kill her to check…

'No,' she mumbled aloud, scolding herself, 'bad idea, Helga. He'll bite your face off.'

'Pardon?'

'I said he'll bite your face off.' She paused. She looked around. She saw Anatole Amery, glancing nervously at her above an armful of books. She groaned.

'Er,' he said, taking a cautious step towards her, 'were you speaking to somebody?'

Helga smiled weakly to compensate for a lack of words. In a slightly sing-song voice, she replied, 'Oh no, just, you know…talking to myself...about face-biting…'

Unsure how to respond to this, Anatole said, 'Ah?'

'Yes…'

'Er, I'm sorry to interrupt,' he continued, apparently deciding that Helga's prior statements could be temporarily ignored until he had a better opportunity to make sense of them. 'I was looking for Professor Ravenclaw…'

_Unsurprisingly_, thought Helga. 'Oh yes? Anything important?'

'Er – not really, no.'

'Nothing else to report about the missing students, I suppose?'

He shrugged, dropping a book in the process. 'We're still running a few tests, and things. Nothing ground-breaking, I'm afraid. Oh – although Heather Bettany – do you know Heather Bettany?'

'Yes,' she said wearily, memories of a thousand rants resurfacing, 'I know Heather Bettany. What about her?'

'Well, I think – I'm not _sure_ – but she may be aware of the victim's identity, though she hasn't said as much.'

'Really? Why? How?'

'Well,' he said eagerly, dropping the rest of the books in his excitement, 'when she came into the staffroom to expose Godric's illness—'

'Ugh.'

'—she caught sight of the most recent victim's face and immediately looked forlorn—'

'Wait wait _wait_,' she demanded, interrupting him with a wave of her hand, 'you kept a dead child in the _staffroom?_'

'Yes,' said Anatole, evidently seeing nothing wrong with this.

Helga looked suitably disgusted. 'Jesus, Anatole, I eat in there!'

'He needed somewhere to defrost!' he cried, defensively.

'_Eugh_, goddammit man—!'

'The dungeons made him smell funny!'

'_The dungeons made him smell funny?!_ He's a corpse! For the love of Saint Beryl's eye patch! Did the vaguely moist dungeon air interfere with the sweet odour of the fetid flesh?! Did the otherwise ambrosial scent of putrid organs become fusty with the dampness?! Did—'

'Stop it,' Anatole pleaded, clutching his stomach. Helga quickly did so.

'Oh,' she gasped, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, 'I'm so sorry! I didn't realise you were so queasy—'

'It's not that,' he rasped, subsiding to the floor with his hands still clamped to his stomach. 'It's not that, it's not that.'

'What's wrong?'

'You're making me hungry!'

Helga straightened up. She withdrew her hand. She took a thoughtful half-step back. After a moment or two's silent contemplation, she concluded, 'Bugger _me_. You're kidding?'

His head bowed into his chest, so his face was obscured by his fallen hair. His position was almost foetal. 'Just give me a minute,' he breathed, in deep concentration, 'I'll be alright.'

Helga, realising her eyebrows had shot so far up her forehead they were hidden in her fringe, quickly lowered them. As his breathing shallowed and his body relaxed, she repeated, 'Bugger me! I mean, really, bugger _me_. You're not a werewolf, are you?'

He shook his head, and again muttered, 'I'll be alright in a minute…give me a second…'

Helga sat down. She needed to. Vaguely wondering why she didn't feel more panicked, and why her fight-or-flight reflex wasn't kicking now it was truly needed, she sighed. 'Jesus H Christ.'

Anatole's breathing resumed a natural pace.

'I had _no_ _idea_. Not going to bite me, are you?' she added suspiciously, looking him up and down.

'No,' he panted.

'Promise?'

'Promise. I'm not one of _those_ sorts.'

'No,' said Helga, confusion apparent, 'you're one of those nice, non-biting, _tastefully dressed_ vampires, aren't you?'

He looked up, with a sheepish grin. 'Yes. One of those sorts.'

00000000

Meanwhile—

'I can't believe he stabbed me!' Salazar yelped, gesturing to his chest – more specifically, the blood-spattered pitchfork embedded within it. 'Me! His own cousin!'

'It's your own fault,' Rowena scolded, taking advantage of his stillness to mop the blood from his face.

'_Moi? _What did I do?'

'You singed his body hair off! After I specifically told you not to!'

'But it was _funny_,' he insisted, sulkily. 'And I didn't know the pitchfork had magical powers, did I?'

'Yes you did.' They were outside Hogwarts, hidden from public view – not that there was much public around to see them – in the shadow of an old turret. Deciding that walking through a heavily populated castle with a pitchfork embedded into the headmaster's chest was just asking for trouble, Rowena had caused a diversion and hurried them both outside. It was most definitely for the best.

'You never told me,' he complained, despite knowing he was fighting a losing argument.

'That's not a valid point. I was _going_ to tell you, but the Forehead Fairy turned up' – Salazar snickered – 'and the opportunity passed me by. Besides which, you _knew_ it was still my wand, regardless of the shape it was in.'

'Alright,' he conceded, 'you win.' He flicked the wooden handle of the pitchfork a couple of times, experimentally. The metal prongs that punctured his torso jutted out of his back and scraped the stone wall. 'Good job it _was _your wand, really. I don't have any outfits that would match this.'

'Looks great on you,' she mumbled, wringing out the blood-drenched flannel that had mopped his face. 'Aren't you feeling a bit light-headed?'

'No more than usual.'

'Poor Godders…I feel quite bad about it now.'

Salazar raised a bloody eyebrow. 'You're telling a man with an agricultural tool in his torso that you _feel quite bad_?'

'He took it well,' she continued, ignoring him, 'apart from the bit where he stabbed you. But, you know, he only did that once he was _sure_ it was a wand, and not an actual tool of death.'

'I'm still not convinced about that,' Salazar muttered.

'Still, he looked so…_hurt_.'

'Yes, he must feel terrible,' he replied, flatly.

'Like we'd really betrayed him.'

'I don't know how he'll survive.'

'But it's like I told him – it's not that I don't _trust_ him, we just need to be _sure_, you know?'

'Yes, it's always best to be sure. Now can we get this bloody fork out of my lungs? I am _not _a sushi.'

Rowena gave him a withering look, but obediently grabbed hold of the pitchfork's handle. 'Now you're just being silly. Sushi is traditionally eaten with chopsticks.'

'How silly of me, indeed. The blood loss must be playing with my culinary know-how.' He braced himself for the pull, fingertips gripping the gaps between the bricks.

'Shut up.' She pulled. It didn't move. She tried again.

'Bloody hell, woman—'

'Shut up or I'll leave you like this.'

'—you're a butcher from hell! Give up!'

She sighed, pushed a stray hair from her eyes, and went in for a second attempt, ignoring Salazar's feeble protestations. 'I need a better grip. Stay still.'

'What the – what the hell are you _doing_?'

'I'm – I'm…' She took a moment to realise just what the hell she _was _doing. 'I'm getting a better grip,' she mumbled, at last.

He stared at her. 'With your _leg_?'

She'd raised one leg, planted her foot on his stomach and pulled the pitchfork again. In her mind, this was to keep him still while the aforementioned pitchfork was removed. In reality, the scene looked a lot less innocent than it actually was.

Still, with a final look at Salazar, she continued this way with a discreet giggle. It was the only time she'd actually made him _blush_.

'I've got it!' she declared, as the prongs began to emerge from his ribcage. 'Just a bit—'

'Ow ow ow—'

'—more…argh!'

Salazar released his grip on the wall. Rowena lost her balance. She released a pained squeal as the pitchfork's handle flew from her grip and into her stomach, the transfigured wand sinking through her body and out of the other side. A stunned pause ensued.

She looked down at the handle in her stomach. She looked up at the prongs in his chest.

A minute passed while the complexities of this scenario sunk in. Then, breaking the silence with a childish giggle, Salazar declared, 'Look, Ravenclaw…we're a kebab!'

00000000

Helga shook her head. 'Jesus Christ.'

'I'm sorry,' Anatole said politely, now as near to normal as he ever looked. 'I'm sorry to put you in such a position—'

She waved him into silence. 'It's alright. I'll not tell any body.' She shook her head again, and repeated her blasphemy.

'Sorry,' he said, weakly. 'I'm usually quite safe about it; I'm just slightly…_tense_.'

'Tense,' she repeated, deciding she needed to sit down again, 'right. Tense. Can't imagine what that feels like.'

'I've been teaching students how to defend themselves against vampires all week,' he added, by means of explanation. 'And I've been locked away with a dead body every evening for the past fortnight.'

She wrinkled her nose, and asked the inevitable: 'You haven't licked it, have you?'

'What? No.'

'Just checking.'

'And on top of that,' he continued, using the oft-employed method of conversation where Helga was concerned (i.e. chuck it on the backburner with the rest of the things you don't understand), 'being told of Professor Ravenclaw's marriage to Slytherin has…well, unbalanced me, slightly. I'm usually a lot more on top of it – and I've _never_ bitten anybody, I swear.'

'I believe you,' said Helga, sympathetically.

'To be honest, I'm hardly a vampire at all – only through genetics. My grandfather was at least one hundred and twenty when my father was conceived.'

'Impressive?' Helga suggested, with no idea of the correct response to that statement.

'Yes,' he smiled, evidently relieved to have a sympathetic ear, 'I've been desperate to tell somebody about it ever since I arrived, but it's never really come up.'

'Naturally.'

'And – and I only hanker for blood when it's out in front of me, and I can walk around in daylight, and I don't even like bats! It's more of a minor inconvenience than a life-threatening curse.'

Helga nodded encouragingly. 'I understand.' She cleared her throat lightly, and added, 'Now, do you think you could run that bit about Rowena being married by me, one more time?'

Anatole's eyebrows rose. 'Pardon?'

'Er…you said Rowena was married to Slytherin,' she reminded him, diplomatically, 'and it was making you tense. Care to elaborate?'

He stammered unintelligibly a couple of times, and dropped another book. 'Is – isn't she?'

'I sure as hell didn't get an invite.'

'He said – he said – they eloped,' he mumbled, face burning furiously with the realisation he may have been had, 'to…England…with…Roger.'

Helga tried very hard not to make him feel like an idiot. 'Roger?'

He avoided her gaze, and mumbled, 'Er…blacksmith.'

'Roger the blacksmith.'

'Er – yes.'

'Married.'

'Yes.'

'Slytherin told you this?'

His shoulders sagged with self-disappointment. 'I'm – I'm not very good at being lied to, am I?'

She once again patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. She had to admit, she liked Anatole. In a distinctly platonic sense. 'There, there,' she offered, as his cheeks continued to burn red, unattractively, 'if it helps, neither am I. But it has its advantages.'

'Really?'

'Yes. You can get away with being sweet and naïve, for one thing.'

He looked up. 'That's a _good_ thing?'

She shrugged. 'Better than being a plain idiot. Besides, I wouldn't worry too much about Ro and Slytherin. Their relationship is something best left unexplored by external forces.'

'She _did _suggest they were an…_item_, of some sort,' he argued, as if in defence of his own "sweet naivety".

'As I say,' she sighed, 'best left unexplored. Really.' She continued to pat his shoulder, as he melted into a lovelorn puddle of semi-vampiric goo. 'Rowena's been my best friend for as long as I can remember. If he ever does anything to hurt her, I'm going to rain down the pain big time. And you can bite him, if you want.'

'Don't encourage me.'

As they sat there, Helga patting Anatole's shoulder while he mumbled about organs and comparative tooth lengths, it occurred to her that, in a very depressing way, they were _both_ a little bit in love with Rowena Ravenclaw.

…In a distinctly heterosexual sense.

In Helga's case, at least.

00000000

Having successfully experienced life as a cocktail sausage, Rowena wasted no time at all freeing herself from the pitchfork. Salazar wriggled free soon after.

'Well, that was pleasant,' he concluded, as Rowena returned her wand to its original form and wiped the blood from it. 'I think it's been a learning experience for everybody involved.'

She glowered at him, as much as a girl who'd been forcefully locked to the object of her affections for at least five minutes could manage. 'Oh yes? And what have we learned today, Slytherin?'

'Gryffindor _still_ looks funny when he's bald and beardless.'

'Ugh.' She made a futile attempt to wipe the wide patches of blood from her stomach with a look of distaste. 'That's all you've learned? Nothing about, say, keeping still when I tell you to, or when there's a pitchfork involved?'

He just chuckled. 'Like a half-melted elephant foetus. Let's pray he dies before he goes bald.'

'That's what I thought.'

'So,' he said, leaning against the wall and making no attempt to tidy the plasma from his shirt, 'what's the plan? Will I definitely be skewered, or is it just a possibility?'

'A _very_ distinct possibility, if you don't stop complaining.'

Salazar looked quite pleased with himself.

'Well,' she said, returning to the plan she'd formulated previously, 'this is – I know it's a bit radical, but – well, you know Xavier Malfoy?'

'The hateful bastard I spent half of my childhood with and am forced to grudgingly accept as a blood relation?'

'Him.'

'Vaguely, yes.'

'Well, I think he knows something.'

Salazar was silent for a moment or two, as if she'd just said something of greater importance than she actually had. Finally, he said, 'He can't be involved.'

'I'm not saying he's _involved_,' she argued, his reaction puzzling her, 'just that he knows something. When the first student died, he started talking about their blood status and about Gryffindor being a werewolf and – what?'

'Nothing,' he muttered quickly, lowering his alarmed eyebrows. 'Just – well, he _would _know about Godders – the Slytherins, Malfoys and Gryffindors are all part of a big happy family.'

'Yeah – alright,' she persisted, unwilling to abandon a plan now she'd thought of it, 'but there's no reason he should know so much about the students themselves, or take a special interest in the matter. I think it'd be stupid and negligent of us not to see what he knows.'

Salazar's face wrinkled. 'I don't want to see him.'

'Well…we have to,' she pleaded. She wondered if now would be the time to unleash her womanly charms. 'You can contact him, can't you?'

He pointed at her clenched fist. 'What's in your hand?'

'Splinters,' she mumbled, wincing. 'That pitchfork was a real bitch. Now…are you going to contact Malfoy?'

He shook his head, apparently realising he could provide her with no solid argument against it. 'You'll kill me, woman. I'll be two minutes.' He took a few steps away from her and, drawing his wand from his pocket, began communication with his blonde-haired cousin.

Rowena tightened her grip on the shreds of parchments in her hand. With a pitchfork through your torso, who'd notice a hand in your pocket? Confident she was unseen, she stashed the unread note into her pocket, which dripped blood into the snow.

00000000

It was some time later, when shoulders had been patted and advice sagely offered, that Helga left Anatole in the abandoned classroom and made her way back to Hufflepuff tower. She'd been told sympathy and warmth were her best selling points, and had to grudgingly agree that this was, indeed, the case.

Sharp hearing, a calm disposition and a keen sense of impending danger were_ not _among her list of virtues, which was why she never heard the careful footsteps that followed her around the corner, nor the rustling of a cloak as a hand lunged forwards and caught around her neck—

'_Don't move_.' The sharp tip of a wand dug into her lower back.

Very quickly, with no pause for thought between words, Helga squeaked something that sounded like, '_OH_ _bugger-bugger-fuck-malarkey-chickenpox-Jesus-keratinous-Christ-badger-knob_!_'_

The grip around her throat loosened very slightly, apparently in awe. It quickly tightened again, and the voice added, 'Don't talk, either.'

Still squeaking, Helga demanded, 'Who the hell are you?'

'It's me, you idiot,' someone snarled into her ear, 'your star pupil.'

She relaxed, very slightly. '_Heather_?'

'Who else?'

'You are getting a _detention_, young lady—ow!'

'Shut up!' she hissed, prodding the wand deeper into her back and out again. 'I don't want to have to hurt you.'

'Course not,' she managed to gasp, as the grip around her neck tightened.

'But if you attempt to fight me, or scream for help, I _will_ kill you. Got that?'

'Meep!'

'Good.' Heather checked briefly around the corridor and, seeing it deserted, hissed, 'Hold still.' She took a step to her right and, after only the slightest hesitation, hurled them both sideways, into the wall. Helga, expecting the harsh smack of solid stone, gasped; but it never came. They just continued to move sideways, tripping slightly over each other's feet, until the ground beneath them was replaced by deep snow, and the warm, recycled castle air became a wintry breeze.

They had emerged outside, beneath one of the Great Hall's windows, in the darkness. Helga gasped again. The grip on her throat finally loosened, but the wand remained unmoved.

'I didn't know it could do that!' she squeaked. 'How long has it been able to do that?!'

Heather, unseen, shrugged. 'You really ought to get it fixed.'

'Yes…that's my first priority.' Always panicked, but never scared: all Hufflepuffs apparently existed under the delusion that they would never die. It was perhaps this, combined with the surreal experience of travelling through a wall, that prevented her from collapsing to the ground in a fit of tears, or demanding to know what she was going to do to her, or any of the other clichés. Instead she noted, 'That wand bloody hurts, thank you very much.'

'It's _meant _to,' Heather snapped, 'you're being held against your will. Are you a complete bozo?'

'That's _Professor _bozo to you.'

She sighed. 'Walk forwards.'

Helga did as told. Her wand was buried somewhere in the depths of her pockets…did she really want to risk it? She'd always known Heather was a bitch, but walking-talking-nutcase? That really took the biscuit.

'Er,' she asked, gingerly, 'where are we going?'

Voice almost eclipsed by the sound of crunching snow underfoot, Heather replied, 'I'm leaving.'

'Er…great. Do I have to come too?'

She rolled her eyes. 'Yes, I'll really need a pastry chef while I'm trekking through the Highlands.'

'Trekking?' she repeated, wincing at the shock of cold that reached her calves. 'Nasty weather for it, isn't it?'

'You are such an idiot.'

'I'm sweetly naïve, actually.' The wand prodded deeper into her back, so she quickened her pace slightly. She has no idea where they were going, or if she should be scared, so she wasn't. The castle entrance loomed ahead, and there was always the remote possibility that someone would see them—

'Turn left,' Heather demanded. After a momentary pause, she obediently did so; stepping away from the light cast by the entrance. After a minute or so of frozen silence, Heather said, 'I need your help.'

'Going the right way about it,' she muttered.

'Shut up. Hufflepuff – true, loyal, unafraid of toil. That's you, isn't it?'

'In all fairness, I didn't actually write that—'

'Well, I need you to do a bit of…toil. Alright?'

'How could I possibly say no?' she asked, honestly.

'You couldn't. Not if you're even vaguely fond of your liver. Stay still!'

She did so. Hands hanging by her sides, she could just about feel the outline of her wand in her pocket…

'Don't think about it,' she snapped. Wand still pointed at her hostage, Heather slowly walked around her until they were face-to-face. It was then that Helga noticed the redness of her captor's eyes, and the vague tremble of her hands. Of course, the cold weather could have accounted for it, but something told her otherwise. She repeated, 'I'm leaving. I've got to get out of here, straight away.'

Helga raised her eyebrows in disbelief. 'Well, I'm not stopping you.'

She rolled her eyes again. 'It's not that simple, is it? I haven't been able to magic myself off campus since Anatole's spell.'

'Well…neither can I,' Helga pointed out, awash in a sea of confusion.

She sighed angrily, and spoke as if the words were being wrenched from her stomach. 'I just need someone to walk me to the village and…make sure I get there…_safely_. Alright?'

'Why?'

She scoffed. 'I'm not telling _you_—'

'_Rictusempra_!'

The instinctive flinch was only momentary, but enough for Helga to take advantage of: she whipped her wand from her pocket and, by the time Heather had recovered, held it against her cheek. As if caught in a Mexican stand-off, Heather simply glanced at it and held her own wand steadily outstretched, pointed at Helga.

The wind whistled past them. Very evenly, Heather said, 'I really have no problem killing you, Professor.'

Helga shrugged. 'You need my help, I need my organs. I suppose we're both a bit buggered, aren't we?'

Her wand lowered. Very slightly. 'What do you want?'

With mild alarm, Helga realised she actually had no idea. "Stop pointing that damn wand at me" had it pretty much covered. Still, she was in an inadvertent position of power now, and so it was time to ask the immortal question: What Would Rowena Ravenclaw Do?

Eventually, she managed to demand, 'Why are you so desperate to leave?'

Heather moistened her lips nervously. 'I'm hiding.'

'Why?'

'He's going to kill me.'

Jesus Christ, talk about a result. 'Er…_who_?'

'I don't know; either of them.' She licked her lips again, and insisted, 'Look, I was going to tell you this anyway. I could still kill you where you stand, so don't think—'

'Either of _who_?'

She shook her head and lowered her wand, so it hung by her side. Helga kept her eyes fixed upon it. 'I've – I didn't _mean _to, alright? I've owed him ever since I was a little girl and he got me out of an arranged marriage. I hadn't seen him for ages when he found me again and told me—'

'Who?'

'—and I really _do_ like Salazar, I never lied about that—'

'Who the hell are you talking about?!' Helga demanded, waving her wand impatiently so it sparked gold.

She lowered her voice and, looking furtively over her shoulder, explained, 'Malfoy. Xavier. And this weird woman he lives with who's obsessed with the frailties of her womb and crushes spiders—'

'Who?' Helga repeated, beginning to sound like a broken record.

'You don't know him?'

'I don't think so. Who is he?'

'He's…he doesn't matter. He's a cousin of Salazar's, I think.'

Helga groaned. 'How did I know he'd be involved?' To her eternal shock and torment, Heather actually began to cry.

'It's worse than that! He killed him!'

'Wha'…what? Who killed who?'

'Everard!' she breathed hoarsely, tears now streaming down her face. 'My little cousin, Everard – he was the last one to die—'

Helga's face crumpled with the effort of thought. 'The body in the staffroom? What was he doing here?'

Sniffing, she managed to mumble, 'Spying. Ever since Anatole's spell, he's been helping me – spying – going between me and Xavier, and he killed him!'

Helga was beginning to feel ill. 'You've been – you've been _spying_ for someone?' Heather nodded, without remorse. 'For this…Malfoy? What did he want to know about?'

'Salazar,' she whispered, lowering her voice to control the volume of her sobs. 'And – and Gryffindor. And _you_, sometimes, but more often Ravenclaw. How you were all getting along, and what you were doing…'

Helga stated in disbelief, momentarily lowering her wand before remembering herself. 'Jesus Christ! I don't even know the man!'

'He doesn't know _much _about you,' Heather sniffed, defensively.

'Well, I suppose that makes it ok, then.'

'I need to get out!' she pleaded, taking a couple of desperate steps towards Helga, who looked on in alarm. 'He's going to kill me if he finds out about that stupid note—'

Helga sighed wearily. 'Ok, for the final time: _who_? Who's going to kill you? Who killed your cousin? Who's killing _everyone_?'

Managing to gain some control over herself, she shrugged. 'Malfoy or – or Salazar or the werewolf or…something else. Everybody lies to me! I don't _know_!'

'Salazar?' Helga repeated, her mouth going dry.

'I don't know. Maybe. Malfoy said he killed Everard! My little Everard! And he's going to kill again, because of Cray—'

'Cray?'

'—because Cray told him so…_please_…I don't want to play anymore!'

She was suddenly reminded that Heather, in all her spiteful, treacherous glory, was still only seventeen. The wind blew again, almost knocking her off balance, and Helga sighed.

'Right,' she said, holding the other girl by the shoulder, 'I'll walk you to the village. You'll be safe. Just stay close. Oh, and Heather…?'

The girl gasped suddenly, as a frozen handful of snow hit her in the face, shocking her into complete silence.

'Never spy on me again,' Helga finished, smiling sweetly.


	8. Chapter 8: Hormones

**Chapter Eight: Hormones**

Salazar recoiled in his seat, his expression contorting to one of intense disgust. 'I'm not doing _that_. It's disgusting.'

'It wouldn't be so bad,' Rowena cajoled, with a particularly wicked grin.

'Disgusting,' he repeated, squirming uncomfortably at the thought. 'Filthy, perverse—'

'I think you'd like it, if you gave it a go.'

'You'd need to get me _very_ drunk.'

'I could do that,' she said, eyeing him up in a calculating way.

'I'm a vicious drunk.'

'You're a _pathetic _drunk,' she corrected him. 'In fact – if memory serves, the last time I saw you under the influence of alcohol, you started sucking a stranger's elbow.'

Salazar winced, a bubbling mass of acidic hangovers resurfacing in his memory. But he didn't remember any elbows. He remembered fist-fights, snogging and random acts of petty vandalism (and one occasion involving a taffeta ball gown, but he wasn't going to dwell on that), but no elbows.

He stared at Rowena suspiciously and concluded, 'You're bluffing.'

She shrugged, smiling deviously. 'Maybe.'

'Maybe?'

'_Maybe._'

He scratched his chin thoughtfully, gaze settling idly on a portrait above the fire. Elbows, elbows…?

'_Elbow_, Salazar,' Rowena said, staring at him intently as if to prompt his memory. 'Sucky-sucky, Salazar. _Remember_?'

Eugh, Christ – yes, the goddamn elbow!

'_No_,' he lied, unconvincingly, 'you're definitely lying, you lascivious wench. Anyway,' he plunged on, despite the superior look on her face, 'the point _is_, I would never tie pink ribbons in my hair. It'd be defilement of one of nature's prime wonders.'

She snorted, vaguely aware that she was on her second ale and crossing the border to the land of Intoxication. 'You consider your hair to be one of nature's prime wonders?'

'Yes,' said Salazar, who was already getting his bag checked at Intoxication's customs control. 'Nature's wonder. It should be bordered off by a little wooden fence to stop people perverting it with their filthy gaze.'

Rowena snorted again. 'It's not _that_ nice, Salazar.'

'Oh no?' An eyebrow arched. 'I live in a bloody dungeon, Ravenclaw. How much time do you think I get to spend on daily hair maintenance? I'm telling you, it's self-cleansing.'

Rowena attempted to arch a similar eyebrow, but ended up losing track of both of them somewhere around her temples. 'My hair's nicer, thank you very much. And _I'm _in a tower—'

'Not right now, you're not.'

'— obviously – and high altitude isn't good for hair quality, you know! Yet my coiffure remains soft as a baby's bottom.'

A mutually confused pause ensued.

'A what?' said Salazar.

'A…bottom,' Rowena repeated, considering the logic of this statement, not for the first time in her life. 'A baby's – a baby's bottom.' She considered the statement, and patted her hair a couple of times in silent contemplation.

Salazar scratched his chin. 'Is that really something you want to be boasting about?'

They were seated within the warm, homey (and oddly blurry) confines of Hogsmeade's favourite public house. Its respectable reputation had been earned through its friendly atmosphere, fine meals, and on-site prostitutes from 10pm onwards (Monday to Saturday only). But not tonight: tonight, the legendary Xavier Malfoy had secured it for his own use. Tonight, Rowena and Salazar were his honoured guests. Tonight, they were entitled to as much free ale as they could quaff.

Oh, and they'd quaffed, alright. And in Xavier's absence, they'd quaffed some more. Rowena was really a master in the art of quaffing. (It's all in the wrist, you see?)

And Salazar had been anxious and snappy, and Rowena had been upset and self-conscious, and then a liberal amount of quaffing had occurred, and Salazar had become chatty and clumsy, and Rowena had become dizzy and giggly. And then Salazar had produced a potted plant.

'Look,' said Rowena, deciding to abandon the bottom-based conversation in favour of something more literal, 'why have you brought that? It seems really impractical.'

'Don't touch it!' he yelped, snatching it up in his arms as she made a clumsy effort to inspect the thing herself. He set it carefully back down, and informed her, 'It's very important, alright?'

She stared at him, incredulously. 'It's a _plant pot._' Her gaze shifted to the object in question, which she viewed with an expression of distaste. 'Knowing my luck, it's probably going to attach itself to my head and start spewing demands for ale and women.'

'_Wimmin'_,' Salazar corrected her. 'There's a difference.'

'Eugh.'

'You know,' he continued, massaging his temples and staring at her blearily across the table, 'we're going to have to sober up before Malfoy gets here. I'm not sure I can deal with him in a state of inebriation. He's an idiot, but he's a smart one.'

'I'm not _drunk_,' she snorted – a sure indication of the opposite – while folding her arms stubbornly. 'I don't _get _drunk.'

His lips twisted into a smooth smile as a half-forgotten memory flashed briefly to the surface. 'Yes you do.'

'Shut up.' He had a point. It generally led to clumsy, lip-based bawdiness. Well – it had once. And that was quite enough for her.

_Now_, she thought, as Salazar quaffed in an over-zealous fashion, _if Mr Slytherin was to attempt any form of osculation upon me right now, what would I do?_

_Would I push him away in a firm manner, reminding him he had chosen another woman over me and that it's all very immoral and not very good for my mental wellbeing? _

_Or would I go along with his drunken shenanigans and snog his beard off?_

She cleared her throat nervously, noticing the way he was watching her with one eyebrow raised, the thought briefly flying through her drunken mind that he could hear every word that ran through her head. She accordingly thought, _Definitely the first option, obviously. I don't go around randomly licking beards; I'm not that sort of girl._

It didn't stop her blushing, though.

'Really suits you,' he said, cutting into her thoughts.

She looked briefly down at herself and asked, 'What does?'

'The gaping puncture wound in your abdomen.'

She looked down again. 'Oh yes.' The skin had mostly healed itself by now, but blood had a tendency to stain. It was always an awkward experience, being stabbed by a giant transfigured wand – led to all sorts of embarrassing questions. 'Well, you can hardly see it anymore.'

'Yeah.' He glanced down at his lungs, which were all but recovered. 'Bloody Godders. I ought to give him a hard thrashing.'

'People would pay to see that,' she replied without thinking, not quite realising she'd said it aloud.

Salazar's eyebrows shot up his head in panic. 'What?'

'What? Er – oh.' She frowned. 'Er…I don't know. Whoops. Quaff?'

He gave her a final disturbed look, quaffing the rest of his ale. 'Strange woman,' he muttered.

'I'm drunk.'

'Obviously.'

'When's Malfoy going to get here?' she moaned, impatiently. 'We've been waiting _ages_.'

'Sick of my company already?'

'No.'

There was a momentary pause. They'd both expected sarcasm.

'Er, well,' said Salazar, at last, 'you'll…never mind, then.'

_Oh buggery_. She tried again: 'When's Malfoy going to get here? We've been waiting ages.'

This seemed like the best course of action. This time, he just shrugged and said, 'Shouldn't be long. He likes to make a dramatic entrance.' He rolled his eyes as he spoke.

'Oh.' _I want to snog your beard off._ She checked his expression, which didn't change, and again thought, _That's right – your poncy beard. _He still didn't react. Rowena wasn't entirely sure what she was trying to achieve – it seemed to be a combination of wistful thinking and desperately hoping that if she thought it enough times, he'd get the message.

But he didn't. He stared vacantly at the fire, quaffing.

She'd tried – in those hazy and worryingly frequent daydreams that sometimes stole over her – to analyse his behaviour. All of it. And it never worked. _He is an enigma, marinated in riddle and baked in secret for forty minutes until piping hot throughout. Whatever that means._

She wanted to do something. Really, she did. But it was like running at Platform nine and three quarters – you had to believe, _really _believe, that you'd pass through unharmed, or else you were just running into a brick wall. And the tiny, screaming voice at the back of her head (the one she tried to suppress with denial and hormones) wouldn't let her forget that, deep, deep down, she didn't believe in him at all…

The thing was, she couldn't do anything about it because _he was Salazar_. And even in that astounding moment of clarity that always strikes somewhere between the third and fourth ale, it never occurred to her that the reason he couldn't act because _she was Rowena._

_He _was Salazar and _she _was Rowena and – and it just wasn't right, dammit!

It _wasn't!_

So what in his right mind prompted him to look up from his drink, head in hand and eyes pointed somewhere around ceiling level, to tell her the thing – the _one_ thing she couldn't _stand _to hear him say in such grubby, stupid circumstances?

'Rowena,' he said, matter-of-factly, 'you have _beautiful_ eyes.' And then he lowered his head back on the table with a thud.

_00000000_

Helga, with teeth chattering furiously and arms wrapped around her chest, inhaled sharply as a fresh gust of icy northern wind stung her eyes. Despite the freezing snow that seized her muscles, she continued to trudge through the virgin snow, wand held out in a half-hearted manner and pointed at Heather's back. She doubted she'd attempt an escape now, but it didn't do to let appearances slip. Don't let her forget who's in control. Show her who's boss.

Worst comes to worse, flay her alive and wear her still-warm skin as a hat. _Ye gods, I'm freezing!_

'You – you alright?' she managed to ask, as Heather half-stumbled across the ice. Her question was ignored. Apparently, vulnerability was something Heather didn't take kindly to: anyone who forced her to expose it was to be snubbed indefinitely.

But it was only a short while later that she wheeled around to face her teacher, a mask of fury on her pretty (large-foreheaded) face. 'Are we out of the grounds yet?' she demanded.

Helga glanced around. Travelling was slow. 'No. Bit further; then you can disapparate.'

She wavered briefly, before demanding, 'You're not lying to me, are you?'

'Too cold to lie.'

She attempted to move on, but Heather remained motionless. 'You could be leading me to a trap,' she insisted.

Helga sighed. Her frosty breath danced before her. 'Yes, Heather, I'm luring you into a trap in the vague hope that I can experience my life-long dream of becoming an Ice Pop. Can we carry on?'

They did so. Reluctantly. Unless she was much mistaken, Helga could hear the other girl muttering "could kill you where you stand using only three fingers of my right hand, if I wanted". She ignored it.

Snow. Snow. Snow. Ice. Snow. More snow. The view wasn't exactly inspiring as they trudged towards Hogsmeade village, teeth chattering; worst still, it stretched on for miles and miles, consuming everything it came across. If Helga ever stopped to consider the possibility that Heather was leading _her _into a trap (which, oddly enough, she _didn't_), she'd have been immensely worried to note that she was, effectively, stranded.

Dim lights bobbed on the horizon. The snow began to thin, carving a narrow, dirty path that cut away from the village and vanished into the woods. Helga, having long since lost the ability to form coherent sentences, simply grunted and prodded Heather's back, leading her over to the track. It provided them both a huge relief – for all of about thirty seconds, that is, when Helga put her foot in the wrong space and squealed loudly.

'Shut up!' Heather hissed, wheeling to face her.

'Oh god, oh god!' Helga squeaked, shaking her foot violently. 'What the hell did I just stand on?!'

'_Shut up! _They'll hear you!'

'WHAT IS IT?!'

Heather sighed, glancing nervously around her shoulders for signs of life and, finding none, squinting at the ground around Helga's feet, illuminated by the faint green glow of her wand. She stared at it in a calculating manner for some time, while Helga hyperventilated.

Finally she stood up and declared, quite simply, 'Pig shit.'

Helga immediately ceased hyperventilating, her mouth falling open in horror. 'Wh…_what_?'

'Pig shit,' Heather repeated, matter-of-factly. 'From a pig. It yields massive comedic potential.'

Helga's face crumpled with disgust. She closed her eyes and, reluctant to ask but finding it necessary to do so, demanded, 'Why is it…_crunchy_?'

'Because it's frozen.'

She choked. 'Frozen.'

'Yes.'

'Pig shit.'

'Yes.'

'On my foot.'

'Yes.'

She attempted a few deep, calming breaths, before declaring, 'You know, Heather, that if your life wasn't already in danger I'd have shaved your hair off and nailed it to a tree by now?'

She nodded. 'Naturally.'

'Good. Walk on.'

000000000000

Rowena stared.

Rowena opened her mouth.

Rowena closed it again.

Eventually she spluttered, 'P-pardon?'

But by then it was too late: Salazar wrenched his head up from the table, stared at the door and said, 'He's here.'

Rowena pointed feebly and stammered, 'You-you said—'

His eyes remained fixed. 'Better sober up. I couldn't stand to be outwitted by a Malfoy.'

'But – you just – you just said—'

'_Poena Desino._'

'P — p – what?'

The door flung open. Xavier Malfoy entered.

And Rowena just said, 'W-what did – what did you just say about my eyes?'

000000000000

'Alright,' said Helga, as a grunting hog wandered past them along the track, 'I think we're just about clear, and no one's attacked you yet.' She passed Heather's wand back to its owner, who stared at it suspiciously.

They were both still for one long, calculating moment. Helga prompted, 'Well?'

'Fnaffu,' said Heather, to her feet.

'Beg pardon?'

'_Fnaffu_.'

'Didn't catch that.'

She rolled her eyes, sighing wearingly. '_Thank you_. Eugh.'

Helga beamed. 'That wasn't so hard, was it?'

'Yes.' She wrinkled her nose, eyes narrowed. 'Like trying to vomit a brick.'

'Nice. And before I rip out your lungs, slip them on my feet and wear them as snow shoes, tell me – who's Cray?'

She winced, briefly considering her options. But everybody deserved a chance against Him…

'You won't tell Salazar?' Heather asked, with undertones of a death threat.

Helga shook her head. 'Promise.'

'Well he's – I'm not entirely sure, but…'

And Helga stared.

000000000000

Xavier made his dramatic entrance. And it was _dramatic_, alright. A lot of effort, a billowing cloak and a particularly haughty glare had gone into that entrance, and Salazar was careful to respond to it accordingly.

Unfortunately, Rowena – stunned, drunk and more than a little light-headed – rather misjudged the moment, and snorted until Salazar nudged her in the ribs.

Xavier raised an eyebrow as the door blew shut after him. 'What's wrong with your little friend, Salazar?'

'No idea,' he replied, glaring at her pointedly.

Eyebrows narrowing with the realisation that his Moment had been undercut, Xavier took a seat at their table. Salazar stood up respectfully, dragging Rowena upright by the shoulder when she didn't follow, and pulling her back down again when she missed her cue to do so.

'Ow,' she muttered, rubbing her arm, 'no need to get grabby, mister—'

'Are you still drunk?' he hissed, lowering his voice desperately.

'I don't _get_ drunk.'

'Sweet Jesus—'

'I must say,' Xavier cut in dryly, sprawling in his seat and watching them with unimpressed eyes, 'I'm hardly dazzled by your level of professionalism.'

Not hearing him, Rowena rather conversationally began, 'Why did you say my eyes were—?'

Salazar very effectively silenced her by prodding a wand at her temple and hissing, '_Poena desino_,' so all the alcohol was removed from her bloodstream in one rather painful flash.

'Ah!' she cried, grabbing her head. 'Sweet beardy haystacks—'

Xavier cleared his throat. Silence settled across the table. Surveying them both with a look of great distaste – Rowena rolling in her seat, Salazar watching her wearily – he said, 'You wish to speak to me, I presume?'

'Yes,' said Salazar carefully, once Rowena had sobered up, 'it's – ah – been a long time.'

'Not long enough,' Rowena muttered. Salazar nudged her again, harder, but Xavier just smiled.

'As I recall,' he said, nostalgically, 'the last time we met you threatened to remove all my body parts and insert them back inside me until you reached a lung.'

'And I definitely _would_,' Rowena insisted. Salazar nudged her once more, this time leaving his elbow pressed lightly against the side of her body. Which, truth be told, was a more efficient way of silencing her than administering multiple fractures, but had the nasty side-effect of making her cheeks turn red.

Xavier continued to smile. It was slightly unnerving. 'I don't believe that's any way to treat your sole financier, is it?'

Salazar winced. Rowena gawped. 'S – _sole_ financier?'

'Weren't you aware?' He grinned at the revelation. 'How terrible. You really must keep up on the practical elements of modern schooling, Miss Ravenclaw. That's how you end up in so much debt.'

Rowena gawped a while longer. She gave Salazar a look that said, _I thought you were meant to be wealthy, you sneaking sonofabitch! When did Malfoy come into the equation? Why did you borrow so much money from him? Why did you never consult me on this? What happened to Godric's contribution? What happens if we lose the school? Will he take it away from us? How could you be so stupidly reckless about such a vital matter?!_

And Salazar gave her a look that said, _Whoops._

'Yes,' said Xavier thoughtfully, observing this unspoken debate, 'it wouldn't be going too far to say that I _own_ the both of you, would it? Interesting thought.'

Rowena squirmed.

'So please,' he continued, sitting back with a menacing grin, 'tell me everything.'

Suddenly, doing so seemed like a rather dangerous option. _Well, the school you're personally financing is losing students at an alarming rate due to them being mauled and/or eaten, and we just wondered if you knew anything about it…?_

'Er,' said Rowena, after thirty seconds or so of awkward silence, 'why don't…_you_ tell us everything _you_ know?' So much for mind games: she could almost hear Salazar mentally bashing his head against the nearest flat surface.

But Xavier raised an eyebrow, appearing pleased with the turn of events. 'Very well, allow me to start the ball rolling: _I_ know that someone's killing mudbloods.' He looked between them. 'Anyone willing to continue?'

'Who's killing them?' Rowena demanded. Salazar bowed his head, and was staring thoughtfully at the stains on the table.

Xavier grinned. 'Somebody with the right idea, clearly.'

Rowena very nearly lunged at him across the table, but Salazar reapplied the pressure in his elbow. 'Don't say that,' she muttered, swallowing some of her rage.

He ignored her. 'I suppose you've cleared the werewolf of all charges?'

'Yes.'

'_All_ of them?'

'Y-yes,' Rowena repeated, with unintentional hesitation.

Xavier sucked his teeth. 'Oh dear – favourable bias will get you nowhere.'

Rowena growled. 'Unnecessary ambiguity will get you a punch in the balls.'

Despite himself, Salazar sniggered. But he continued to stare at the table, unwilling to form any connection with his cousin.

'Somebody,' Xavier continued, 'is killing those dear, half-breed students. If you really wish to find them, I'd suggest lengthening your list of suspects.' A delighted smile flitted across his lips as he added, 'Not everyone you hold close is your _friend_, Miss Ravenclaw.'

'It _isn't _Godric,' Rowena insisted. 'It's an animal. Everyone agrees.'

'Hm. Know many animals?'

'Well – there's Godric,' she admitted, hesitantly, 'but there's – there's all sorts in the forest that could've – could've…' She faltered again. 'Salazar?' she prompted, appealing to him for encouragement.

Salazar shrugged, still focussed on the table. His shoulders were hunched. Rowena sighed and turned back to Xavier.

'Look,' she hissed, 'since you know so much about it, I can't help but think _you're_ more involved than you're letting on—'

'Are you _accusing _me?' Xavier demanded in amusement, while Salazar nudged her forcefully into silence.

Xavier stared at Rowena. Rowena stared back. Eventually she shook her head and, shuffling closer to Salazar, lowered her head so it was level with his and hissed, 'What's down there that's so interesting, Mr Helpful?!'

His only reply was, 'Just shut your eyes.'

'What?' She looked up again, and demanded, 'What aren't you telling us, Malfoy?'

The silence was thick and significant as he stared purposefully into her eyes and said, very carefully: 'Only that _Cray's_ hard work will not be wasted on this _coward_, Miss Ravenclaw.'

It was at that moment, as Rowena's face crumpled with confusion, that Salazar Slytherin did the one thing she didn't expect him to do, and whipped out his precious plant pot. Xavier's eyes flew open in alarm. Rowena's flew shut.

And with a nasty smile, Salazar prodded the ceramic base with his wand...

…And the world went _bang._

000000000000

'His grandfather,' Heather hastily continued, words stumbling over each other in an effort to escape, 'Cray Slytherin – his carer, his father's father – he raised Salazar for _years_, but then – but then Salazar killed him as he _slept_—'

'He killed him?' Helga repeated, struggling to keep up with her hurried narration. 'Why?'

'He told him things! He – Salazar – he helped him, and he volunteered himself and they cursed him—'

'Cursed _who?_'

…And then the world went _bang._

As the horizon flashed gold and Helga fell backwards into the snow, Heather, deciding there was only a specific level of fear she could tolerate, disapparated.

000000000000

Several minutes had passed, and the building was still collapsing around them.

It had...well, "_exploded"_ was probably the wrong word. "Combusted" was more like it. "Erupted", maybe.

All Rowena knew was that, one minute, the building was upright and in its entirety: the next, it was in several pieces and decidedly _flat_. Somewhere between this dramatic shift of being was a plant pot and a Malfoy and a bright flash and a sudden feeling of flying several metres into the air, but this had all come to an end as they crashed back to earth, surrounded by debris and…

'Ravenclaw?'

'Yes?'

'We're lying in a gutter.'

'Ah,' said Rowena, somehow propping herself up on her elbows, '_you _may be lying in a gutter, Salazar, but some of us are looking at the stars…'

'I'm looking at Malfoy's naked thigh, Ravenclaw. There's nothing heavenly about that.' He pushed the offending leg out of his line of vision and added, 'No, I'm not entirely sure why it's so trouser-less, either.'

'Don't dwell on it.'

'I'm trying.' He rolled the unconscious body into the snow, and also propped himself up on his elbows. After a few more minutes, filled by the irregular crunching of bits of building falling into the snow, he said, 'Well, this has been a fun night.'

'Eventful,' Rowena agreed. 'We lead very full lives, between us.' She realised her entire lower-half was immersed in snow and that her bottom was starting to go numb. Her back dripping with freezing water, she muttered something unintelligible and, grabbing Salazar's shoulder, clambered to her feet. Salazar followed a short time later.

'Wow,' he muttered, observing the damage for himself, 'I didn't think it'd work _that _well.'

'Please, Slytherin, inform me of the thought process behind this latest plan of yours.'

'The one that made the inn die?'

'That one, yes.'

He shrugged. 'Couldn't stand to look at his snarky face, to be honest.' He kicked the unconscious man by his feet, and added, 'It'll re-assemble itself within twenty-four hours. I wouldn't worry about it.'

And then…

Well, she didn't know why she did it. It didn't feel like an important moment, or even the _right _moment, but rather the moment that Rowena Ravenclaw decided she was fed up of waiting for that perfect, far-off time when Salazar would get his act together and _do something_. Perhaps it was because of her beautiful eyes, or perhaps because of their most recent moment of peril, or perhaps because she'd never enjoyed the experience of being skewered with a wand so much in her life.

Mainly, though, it was because the voice in her head that screamed, "But he's _Salazar!_" had finally been subdued with the most compelling argument she'd ever thought up: _Yeah, exactly…_

Which was why, as he brushed the dust from his sleeves and kicked Xavier with the side of his foot, she shut off her mind, said, 'Ah, fuck it,' and kissed him.

000000000000

Helga crawled clumsily out of the snow banking. She stared at the spot Heather had vanished from, and demanded, 'Salazar's a _murderer?_'

000000000000

She'd gone to kiss him.

Unaware of this, he'd chosen that precise moment to look down at his shirt.

Her eyes flying open in panic as the event unfolded, her lips had somehow ended up slipping and drifting and pressed against his…

…his…

…_eyebrow_.

And then they both froze.

For a very, very long time.

Rowena's entire universe churned to a halt; unable to move or speak or think anything other than _GODDAMMIT WOMAN, YOU ARE KISSING HIS EYEBROW._

And Salazar's eyes had also shot open; his body tensed in the manner of a man recently told of a wasp on his back and desperate not to aggravate it. He tried to shift his gaze upwards, but found her chin in the way.

After possibly the most awkward ten seconds of their respective lives, he managed to say, 'Um. Ravenclaw?'

She pulled her head away. A few seconds later, she relaxed her lips and just about managed to blink. Salazar remained perfectly still.

She tried to say something, _anything_, but could only managed a hoarse whimper of, 'Um…'

Suddenly, the screaming voice in the back of her mind filled the universe. Her blasé, "fuck it all" attitude was sucked away from her, spiralling into the darkness and filling her with the horrendous, stomach-churning realisation that he_ was_ Salazar and she _shouldn't _do anything and she _had _just kissed his _eyebrow_,for god'ssake_—_

'Um,' she tried again, as Salazar continued to stare at her, his head bowed forwards as it had been when she kissed him. Her voice sounded unnaturally high. 'Um…I'm going to, um…disapparate now, I think…'

'Er,' he said, finally lifting his head and towering over her once more, 'I don't think you can – you can apparate into Hogwarts, er, anymore…'

She shrugged helplessly. 'Anywhere but here, really.'

'Er.'

"Er". The last thing she heard him say before she vanished: his face blank, his eyes wide, and a guilty damp circle glistening above his left eye.

When Rowena returned, silently, to her tower, she fell into bed, tried to scream, but had to settle on staring at her pillow in a state of shock. It was official. She'd traumatised him.


	9. Chapter 9: Family

**Chapter Nine: Family**

Rowena wasn't sure of the precise time she fell asleep.

She remembered staring, blindly, at her pillow for perhaps a number of hours, releasing occasional weak mutters of, '_Bollocks…_'

Even more occasionally, without applying any conscious effort to the moment, she puckered and released her lips, _almost_ as if she was kissing something eyebrow-shaped.

And on one particularly memorable occasion, she held her arms aloft, stared heavenwards, and shook her fists at the ceiling while screaming, '_Why?!_'

It was at that point that the Ravenclaw prefect – a malnourished blonde girl who'd been offered the position based upon the fact that she was the only one who asked for it – knocked against Rowena's bedroom door and said, 'Er…Professor?'

Rowena lowered her hands and glared, unseeingly, at the door. 'What?'

'Er…are you alright?'

'Yes,' she replied, hoarsely.

'Er…' The prefect wavered diplomatically, thinking that there were certain things no member of the student body should ever have to do. 'Er, I was just wondering why you've been yelling the words "snaky bastard" for the past five minutes…'

Rowena winced.

'…and, er, demanding to know why your god has forsaken you. Er…Professor?'

'What?'

'Should I come in?'

For the first time since she'd stumbled into bed, Rowena glanced down and realised she was still fully clothed. Wow. Talk about a mental breakdown.

'No,' she croaked, at last, 'I'm indecent.' As an unnecessary afterthought, she added, 'I'm smeared in my own excrement, rolling strips of tobacco between my thighs.'

There was a pause. Then a slightly concerned demand of, 'Seriously?'

'No.'

'Right…'

'Look, I'm _not!_ You can come in and look for yourself!'

After a hesitant pause, she did so. The expression with which she surveyed the room – fading from an awed gawp to a disgusted scowl – suggested she had grander expectations in mind for a head teacher's private chambers. There were probably more books in her version. And a pince-nez. And stacks of very official-looking paperwork, mounted on a golden doily.

And while it was true that Rowena had books, they were mainly the standard-issue text books she'd "procured" from school; a couple of highly-regarded tomes that had been in the family long enough to acquire a damp and musty smell; and a discreet selection of "romantic literature", most of which contained the words _hot _and _passion _in the title at least once.

'What?' Rowena demanded, lowering her pillow as the prefect wrinkled her nose. 'I'm poor.'

'Right,' the prefect muttered, disbelievingly. She looked at Rowena for the first time, and her mouth fell open. 'Er…professor, did you know that you're blue?'

'I'm what?'

'Blue.'

She wasn't really up-to-date with the lingo of the youth. 'What the hell does that mean – is it _good_?'

The prefect took a cautious step backwards. 'Er…not really. You're _blue_.'

Rowena glanced down at herself. 'That'll be frostbite, I expect.'

'Er—'

'You got a problem with that?'

'Er…' There were some things no member of the student body should ever, _ever _have to do. She gave in. 'No, professor. Will you need any potions bringing up?'

She glanced down at her numb fingers in a businesslike manner and said, 'No, I can take care of it. When the morning comes, could you please tell Professor Hufflepuff to smother me with a large pillow?'

The prefect's eyebrows rose in alarm.

'Just tell her I've done a Bad Thing and she'll be doing me a great favour.' For the first time, something at the back of her mind came to the attention of the front, and she demanded, 'Why are you dressed so early? It's _Sunday_.'

The prefect took another step back from her frostbitten teacher. She had a habit of reacting badly under _normal_ conditions. 'I'm, er, leaving, professor,' she admitted, hand reaching for the doorknob in advance.

Rowena stared. 'What – _leaving_?'

'Yes.'

'Leaving Hogmosh?'

'Yes.'

'What, for _good?_'

'Er, yes.' She backed against the wall. There were some very vivid rumours about what she'd done to the Herbology master that day in the staffroom. 'My mum doesn't really want me staying—'

'Bugger your mum!' Rowena cried desperately.

'Er, no thank you—'

'_Why?_' she begged, lunging across her bed and aiming in the general direction of the student, grabbing the hem of her robes imploringly. 'Why? What did I do _wrong?_'

'Er – well – because people keep getting eaten—'

'Not eaten!' she insisted, desperately. 'Not eaten, _mauled!_'

'Well—'

'What's a bit of mauling, between friends? We could make this work, woman!' Too late: the prefect had already edged her way out of the room, and was fleeing the tower at speed. Still, crawling on her belly, Rowena cried, 'I could _change!_ It doesn't have to be this way! Have _faith _in me! Eugh.' She allowed her head to flop forwards, hitting the floor.

Bankrupt. Rejected. Frostbitten. Abandoned. Headachy. Could life actually be any worse?

000000000000

In the great karmic balance of the universe, it just so happened that at the same moment Rowena posed this rhetorical question, somebody else was getting his answer.

'Ugh,' groaned the Stranger, as his vision was flooded with light. Feeling mainly recovered but horribly bored, he angled his neck so his eyes peaked over the thin blanket that shielded his face, and strained his ears to hear the muttered discussion that broke out as the door slammed shut:

'Fucking _Slytherins_,' Malfoy snarled, draping a cape over his shoulders, 'with their stupid bloodlines and traditions—'

'Don't speak ill of your family, dear,' said Sophia boredly, draped across a chair in anticipation for his return home.

'He blew me up!' Xavier cried, losing his temper for the first time since the Stranger had known him (if "known" was a suitable word). 'Some useless spell Cray taught him, I've no doubt. I could rip his skull open with my perfect fingernails—'

'Calm yourself. You'll get a headache.'

'He blew me up!' he repeated, voice somewhere between hysteria and exasperation. 'I think I've transcended the realms beyond the Headache Kingdom, Sophia! Besides which,' he added, settling slightly as he fell into a seat opposite the woman, 'he's not doing anything about the prophecy.'

'Who cares? A prophecy's a prophecy. He has no choice.'

'I know, but he's – he's _bending _it. The creature's just _there_, he isn't stopping it or controlling it. It's just _there_.'

'It's that silly girlfriend of his,' Sophia said bitterly, 'she'll be involved, somehow.'

'Hm.' He took a sip of wine and added, 'She doesn't remember you, by the way. I think he was kind enough to remove you from her memory.' He audibly _smirked_.

'Really?' said Sophia, with interest. 'Our little Slytherin did that? How lovely.'

'Still doesn't solve what we're going to do about the prophecy,' he mused. 'Cray was right, you know – he's a terrible coward.'

'Oh dear. Another of your cunning plans in the pipeline, Xavier?'

He shrugged. 'Continue as we're doing, until he has no choice but to enact it. I want to see it _done_ within my lifetime.'

They sat in silence for a while. The Stranger made an active effort not to exhale.

Eventually, Sophia said, 'Your little female friend has abandoned us, by the way.'

'Heather?'

'Mm.'

'I'm not amazed.' He sniffed in reproach at her act of treachery. 'We'll catch her.'

'Naturally.' Another minute or so of silence. Then: 'We can let _him_ go, I suppose?'

'I see no reason why not. His bloody chicken keeps eating my shoes.'

'Do you want to make a baby?'

'No, Soph.'

'Fine. Can I beat him up?'

Xavier glanced briefly over at him. The Stranger pretended to be asleep. He shrugged. 'I don't see why not.'

'_Then_ can we make a baby?'

'No, Soph.'

000000000000

Helga entered Rowena's room cautiously, having been forewarned of her current condition by a suitably frightened prefect. Her mind boiled with news – of Anatole, Heather, Slytherin – and she was trying her hardest not to think of anything else, lest she accidentally displace it.

'Er,' she tried, pushing the door open, 'Ro?'

From within the room, a small voice said, 'Have you brought the pillow?'

'We've been through this before, Ro,' she said, closing the door after her, 'I'm only going to smother you with soft furnishings if you pay me handsomely. And since we never agreed how much "handsomely" actually equates to, I don't think I'll be doing _that_ any time soon.'

'Eugh.'

She sat at the foot of Rowena's bed, eyes squinting to make sense of the bundle of blankets and limbs that was Rowena Ravenclaw. Somewhere underneath all that bedding, she appeared to be laid in the foetal position.

'Something wrong?' she attempted, in a prime example of stating the obvious.

Very slowly, Rowena's staring eyes emerged. 'Oh gods,' she muttered, deliriously, 'Helly, I did a _very _Bad Thing.'

'Do go on.'

She vanished back under the blankets. She muttered something indecipherable.

Helga's nose wrinkled. '"I custard I bow"?'

'What?' She emerged again, looking vaguely annoyed. 'Why the hell would I say that?'

'Er—'

'_I kissed his eyebrow!_'

Helga stared at her. 'His – his what?'

'Eyebrow, Helga! The hairy strip of _brow_ above his _eye_!'

Helga continued to stare, gawping slightly. Eventually she managed to say, 'What – really?'

'_Why would I make it up?!_'

'Er, ok, ok,' she said soothingly, as Rowena vanished beneath the blankets again and began to burble. 'You kissed – you kissed Slytherin's eyebrow. Um.' She didn't want to know… '_Why?_'

'He _moved!_'

'Ok—'

'He moved his mouth and I hit his eye!'

'Um—'

'And I stayed there for an excruciating amount of time!'

'I—'

'And then he was speechless!'

'Er.' As Rowena began to burble incoherently again, Helga found time to ask, 'Er…why did you try to kiss him in the first place, Ro?'

Silence. Very awkward silence.

Then a croaky whisper of, 'I _want_ him.'

Helga winced. This was not a good time to be a Hufflepuff. Finding no way to cover the uncomfortable silence that filled the room, she eventually settled on, 'Er…Anatole's a vampire, you know.'

Rowena shot upright. 'Really?'

'Yeah!' A hasty conversation about Anatole's nocturnal habits ensued, until Rowena began to look marginally happier. She continued to tell her about Heather, and her connection to this "Malfoy" man (soliciting a cry of, 'I_ had_ the smarmy bastard!' from Rowena) and her spying and paranoia and…well, all the bits that didn't include Salazar. The _important_ bits.

'Wow,' Rowena whispered hoarsely, once she'd finished, 'if only we'd kept hold of her…I _knew_ the bitch troll from hell was up to something!'

'Nice epitaph,' Helga noted.

'Thank you.'

'Well, I found out as much as I can – but really, I think she was just acting on Malfoy's orders, Ro. She was just a scared little girl at heart.'

'She was a bitch troll from hell at heart,' Rowena corrected her, 'and I am glad to see the end of her hellish-bitch-trollery. Although the only way to kill her is to chop her head off with a silver axe, bathe it in holy water and bury it in sacred ground while the full moon shines,' she muttered, as a long afterthought.

'Well, that's – that's all she said.' She looked down uncomfortably at her hands, her mind in turmoil.

'Well, I suppose it's _something _to go on,' Rowena mused, apparently oblivious to this. 'I _knew _Malfoy had to be involved! I said so. Although _he _seemed convinced that it was Godric—'

'So did Heather,' Helga reminded her, unhappily.

'She's a bitch troll from hell. I'm ignoring her.'

'Right. Um. She _did_ say one other thing,' she mumbled, the words wrenched from her stomach.

Rowena looked at her. 'What?'

_That Slytherin's a murderer who wants to kill her_, said her mind. She pursed her lips. 'Er.'

The sentence began and ended with "er". Because Rowena had wide, sleep-deprived eyes and drove herself insane over that evil, snarky bastard without hope of respite, and despite all her better judgement and honest emotions, she _wanted_ the smug fiend. The enemy of seven long years. The _murderer_.

Except…well, Heather was paranoid, wasn't she? And mumbling and scared and frozen half to death, and she'd have said anything to get away from her, and like she said – she wasn't sure of anything.

Salazar Slytherin was a lot of things, but a cursed murderer he was not…

Well…

'She said she was sorry,' Helga lied, eventually. She faked a shrug. 'Don't know what she meant by it, but I think she wanted me to tell you.'

'Oh,' said Rowena, slightly disappointed. 'You should've punched her teeth out.'

'Right.' _Not until I'm sure_, she thought, glumly_. I couldn't do that to her._ 'Are you going to get dressed? You smell like something died in your mouth.'

'Eugh,' she muttered, wrinkling her nose, 'thanks very much. And no, actually – I'm never leaving my tower for as long as I live.'

'I haven't seen Slytherin all morning.'

'Still no.'

'If we bump into him, I'll immediately expose myself as a distraction while you make a hasty exit.'

Rowena considered this proposition, then nodded. 'Fine. Give me five minutes.'

'Make it twenty,' Helga pleaded. '_Really _brush those teeth.'

'Shut up.'

000000000000

Godric snubbed her at lunch.

She thought he did, anyway. Unfortunately for all concerned, Godric was so unwaveringly polite, stoic and courteous that, if not for the fact that he'd said, 'By the way, I'm snubbing you,' after greeting her good morning, she'd have had no idea of the fact.

As she and Helga took a seat at the Teacher's Table, Helga asked, 'What's wrong with him?'

Rowena shrugged. 'We _may_ have barged into his room late last night and attempted to stun him.'

Helga's nose wrinkled. 'Oh, _dear_, Ro. Was that really necessary?'

'We didn't get that far,' she sighed, absentmindedly throwing a bread roll at today's Sausage of War, 'I just made a mangled attempt to explain our situation while Salazar verbally abused him, burned his body hair off and tried to stab him with a pitchfork. It didn't work,' she added sadly, as the memory surfaced.

'No?'

'No.' She tried eating something. She gave in. 'I can't help but notice,' she observed, sadly, 'that the halls are a lot emptier than they usually are.'

Helga winced. 'Er. Yes, Ro.'

'They're leaving, aren't they?'

'Well…just a couple, yes.' She threw a fork at the Sausage of War, very nearly blinding the Divination professor. 'Not _all_ of them – some are just getting ready to go home for the holidays.' Rowena didn't respond, so she clarified, 'As in, they'll be _coming back_. Ok?'

Rowena mumbled something and yawned into her hands. Slytherin was nowhere to be seen, but Helga had lived up to her word and walked to the Great Hall with her skirt hitched around her knees, prepared to cause a distraction should he suddenly appear. Rowena suddenly thought that Helga was constantly undervalued.

She didn't say this aloud, instead going with, 'Have you forgiven Godric yet?'

Helga raised her eyebrows disapprovingly. 'No. And I'm not going to. It's over.'

Rowena whined. 'Can't you just—'

'_No_,' she said, firmly. 'I've loved Godric for years without him even knowing as much, and there is no way he could ever have lived up to my high expectations of him. Now drop the subject before I overload you with gratuitous details of our sex life.'

Looking suitably disgusted, she replied, 'I was just going to ask if you'd consider _forgiving_ him, rather than re-igniting your depraved flames of passion.'

'Oh.' She shrugged. 'Maybe. Now shut up and eat something.'

Rowena obediently did so.

000000000000

Salazar stared, very intently, at a stick. It was all he could do to stop his mind wandering.

He had, after all, been awake all night and most of the morning. His mind was exhausted. All that damn _thinking_.

He was in the woods, somewhere. Not too far in, but far enough to remain unseen by any curious onlookers. He hadn't been home – and he supposed Hogsquash _was _his home, now – but strolled vacantly around the grounds for a couple of hours before finding a conveniently placed stricken tree, and made himself comfortable upon it.

_So_, he thought. He didn't get much further, because every time he attempted to do so his thoughts arrived in a heavy onslaught, like snow falling from a loose branch. So he applied more concentration, untangled the various strands of information and soul-searching, and eventually managed:

_So, Rowena kissed my…forehead. Let's assume she was aiming elsewhere._

_Not exactly the first time we've kissed. Definitely the least successful, most shambolic attempt ever made in the history of humankind, but not the first. _

_But __**she**__ – the neurotic, half-crazed, achingly sensible buffoon – was the person who made the attempt. __**Her**__. Not me._

_And this means…_

Here, the thoughts became jumbled again. He longed for sarcasm, but couldn't find any.

_This means…that…there is a distinct possibility of…_

…_something…_

…_good happening._

_Something that will definitely be ruined, owing to the fact that I'm an evil bastard and she's a moralistic buffoon. And I __**want**__ her._

He looked up and shuddered, muttering a disgusted syllable at his own thought process. What was she doing to him? Even his own thoughts had conspired against him!

'Of course,' said Xavier Malfoy, sliding into the seat next to him, 'you realise fate still binds you to cock the whole thing up, don't you?'

Salazar didn't react to his presence. He hadn't slept in almost forty-eight hours; he could easily have been imagining him. Either way, they were _family_. You don't hold grudges against _family_.

'Yes,' he muttered, still staring at the stick. 'I'm aware, thank you.'

Sophia appeared at the other side of him, draping a comforting arm around his shoulder. 'There there, William. You're not _doomed_.'

'Don't call me William,' he replied, still unaffected. 'I hate that name.'

'Whereas "Salazar" just oozes style,' Xavier muttered.

'Cray used to call me William.'

'Aren't you going to do anything?'

'About what?'

'You're fighting,' Sophia explained, smoothly, 'whether you like it or not. And right now, you're _losing_. Everything. Money. Castle. _Her. _Aren't you going to start fighting back?'

'You could still win,' Xavier added.

Salazar grumbled. 'Yeah. And kill a load of mudbloods at the same time. I can't see her being utterly taken with me after that.'

'Aren't you willing to take the gamble?'

Salazar grumbled again.

Sophia smiled at Xavier behind Salazar's back, before patting him comfortingly on the shoulder once more. 'All you have to do,' she reminded him, sweetly, 'is fight Gryffindor. It's very _easy_.'

'Unless, of course, he kills you,' said Xavier, 'in which case you're dead, so it hardly matters.'

'Yeah?' said Salazar, looking up for the first time. 'And what if I _don't _fight him?'

'Oh, you will. It's just a matter of _when_.'

Salazar screwed his eyes shut and massaged his aching temples. 'I was _meant_ to be soul-searching about my so-called relationship. When did you psychotic bastards get invited to the party?'

'All your life depends on this prophecy, William,' Xavier said, casually, 'whether you win or lose – that's your choice.'

Salazar sighed. 'Right. Fine. One question – are you _real?_'

'That depends,' said Sophia. 'Do you want to make a baby and find out?'

He sighed again. 'That'll be a "yes", then.'

000000000000

The day came and went. Students came and went. Rowena's sanity came and went.

But Salazar didn't.

'He'd better not be dead,' Rowena growled, scanning the grounds from one of the lower Great Hall windows, 'or I'll kill him.'

'Sensitivity _and_ logic,' Helga mumbled. She'd been making similar threats for the past four hours. The impact was beginning to wear off slightly.

'I mean, I'm not _worried_,' she continued, apparently unaware that no one had suggested as much, 'just annoyed. No point me getting het up about him if he's not going to even show up.'

'I totally understand.'

'And if he was dead, how could he ever—?'

'Is that him?'

'What? Where?' Rowena cleared her throat and, attempting a calmer tone, repeated, 'Er…what? Where?'

'There.' She pointed to an approaching figure, cast black against the bleached whiteness of the sky, who approached Hogwarts dazedly. 'That's not him, is it?'

Rowena squinted. 'No…no, his shoulders are too wide. Not that I've ever devoted myself to an intensive study of his shoulders at any point in my life,' she added, hurriedly.

'Jesus Christ, Ro. Did I _ask?_'

'Sorry.'

Godric appeared briefly to say, 'I'm still snubbing you, by the way,' before wandering off again.

'He's here,' said Helga, slipping away from the window and towards the entrance hall. 'Let's see who it is.'

'Not Salazar,' Rowena muttered, reluctantly following her.

She wrenched the door open as he knocked against it and saw, once the initial snow blindness faded, the Stranger's weary, smiling face.

His face.

And his eyes.

And his – his _face_.

Rowena immediately slammed the door closed, and leaned her weight against it with traumatised eyes. Helga stared at her quizzically.

'Ro, what the hell are you doing?'

She released a few unintelligible sounds in the back of her throat.

The Stranger knocked again, venturing, 'Ah…hello?'

Rowena wheezed, staring at Helga imploringly. After a few stunned seconds, she managed to hiss, '_Ohmygiddygod!_'

'Who is it?' Helga demanded, making a few attempts to drag Rowena from the door and learning of her surprisingly powerful kick in the process. 'Ro, who _is _it?'

There was another knock, and a tentative cry of, 'Ah…Ro? It's me. Richard. Ah, in the snow.'

Helga's eyes bulged. 'Your _brother?!_'

'Gaffengabba!' Rowena squeaked, articulately.

'Your _brother's _at the door?!_ Sober?!_'

'Ro,' said the voice, slightly louder, 'it's Richard. In the snow. You remember me, don't you?'

'_Cluck_.'

'Oh yes…and this is my chicken.'

At which point, Helga choked.


	10. Chapter 10: Chicken

**Chapter Ten: Chicken**

Helga, Rowena soon realised, was almost freakishly strong.

Strong enough to grab her impatiently by the waist, dig her fingers into her spine and wrestle her away from the door while screaming a primitive war cry, paying no heed to Rowena's unnaturally powerful kicks and somehow dragging her to the floor.

Godric, who'd been unfortunate enough to pass through the entrance hall as Rowena bit into her friend's shoulder, didn't quite know what to do with himself. Eventually he settled with, 'Er…?' but nobody heard him over Helga's scream of revenge.

'We've got – to let – him _in!_' she managed to cry, as Rowena grabbed the back of her dress to prevent her from doing any such thing.

Rowena replied with a squeal of, '_Nononono!_ Later!'

'_Later?!_'

'Not now! Not ready!'

'_Not_ _ready?!_'

Somebody knocked at the door. Godric, stepping carefully around the girls as one pinned the other's arms down and attempted to hold her in some kind of headlock, went to answer it. He got as far as turning the door knob before both ladies screamed and barrelled into him, catching him off guard and sending him flying backwards.

This, at least, had some kind of subduing effect on them. Rowena massaged her shoulder and cried, 'Jesus Christ, Godric, are you wearing a breastplate?!'

Godric glanced down at his body in confusion, lifting up his shirt as evidence to the contrary. Muscles gleamed. Rowena stared for an uncomfortably long time.

'Right,' she said at last, as he vanished back beneath his shirt, 'yes, you'd better put those away before you…cause an injury, or something.'

_Knock. Cluck_.

'Eugh!' She leapt to her feet again, forcing all thoughts of muscles and man-nipples from her mind. Helga hovered over her shoulder in a way she probably believed to be encouraging.

'Come on,' she said, pushing Rowena towards the door, 'you've got to let him in – you haven't seen him in _years!_'

'I know!'

Helga took a deep breath and one long step backwards, leaving Rowena alone before the door. Godric, intrigued and slightly bruised, hadn't moved.

'Go on, Ro,' Helga insisted, 'it's Time.'

Rowena stared at the door. She took a deep breath. As yet another loud knock echoed throughout the hall, she raised one trembling hand to the doorknob.

000000000000

Meanwhile, Salazar Slytherin warmed his hands by placing them under his armpits, and watched with mild annoyance as Sophia Bruntt rubbed snow across her bare midriff.

'Seriously, William,' said Xavier, with a roll of his eyes, 'it wouldn't kill you to impregnate her, you know.'

'Don't call me William.'

'It suits you.'

He briefly contemplated beating his cousin across the face with a hefty branch, but decided against it. Too much energy, for one thing.

Instead, he busied himself by watching Sophia as she attempted to discover whether a cold climate could increase her fertility. It wasn't a particularly pleasant sight, but it passed the time.

Eventually he demanded, 'Don't you have anywhere to be?'

'Don't _you?_' Xavier countered.

'I'm soul-searching,' he informed him, 'and you're ruining it.'

'We're _helping_,' Sophia insisted, despite all evidence to the contrary. 'We'll search your soul for you and tweak out all the good bits – how about that?'

Salazar just muttered angrily under his breath.

He hated his family.

000000000000

There he was: Richard Ravenclaw, five years her senior, shuddering with the cold, unseen for eight years.

And there was his chicken, pecking at his ankles.

A thousand memories resurfaced in Rowena's mind, flashing before her eyes before he even had chance to smile: the smell of his burning breakfast, the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands, his handwriting, the way he spoke – all gone, with all their money, the moment her parents had died—

The grin broke out, high across his face, emphasising his pointed chin. Rowena immediately melted into his arms, squeezing his ribs tightly while he made a few uncomfortable attempts to remove her.

'Ah,' he gasped, as the pressure of her embrace tightened, 'yes, darling, one of those _is_ broken, of course – ah!' He sighed in relief as she obediently tore herself away and dragged him out of the snow, slamming the door shut after them.

Rowena stared at him, mind straining to absorb the unfamiliar details. His eyes were the same as hers – round and blue – as were his light freckles, and the colour of his waved, messy hair. But his broad jaw and narrow chin – his height – his unfamiliar skinniness and the slope of his shoulders, here and _real _for the first time in so long—

'I think I'm going to swoon,' she mumbled, holding his forearms tightly.

His eyes twinkled as her smiled at her. 'Please do. It'd only increase the drama.' He looked her up and down and observed, 'I see you've grown much taller.'

'It's been eight years,' she pointed out, somehow fighting the urge to both pass out and punch him.

'Really?' He scratched his beard. 'Doesn't feel like it, does it?'

She shook her head.

'You look well.'

'_You_ look awful.'

He grinned sheepishly, stretching out a cramp in his arm. 'Well, you know how it is – hard times, and all that.' His grin widened. 'It's so _marvellous_ to see you.'

'You too,' she managed, although not fully convinced that she was telling the absolute truth.

Really, it was…strange. Seeing him. Him being _there_, in the room, looking cheerful as ever despite his run-down appearance; acting as if everything was hunky-dory. Her Richard. Her lovely, idiotic Richard.

'This is Clarence,' he said, gesturing to the unexplained chicken that flapped around her feet. 'I must admit, I didn't have the heart to eat him.'

Oh, yes, that was definitely her brother. 'Richard,' she sighed, watching the poultry with repulsion, 'chickens are always, but always, of the _female _gender.'

He looked at Clarence sharply. 'You never told me this.'

'_Cluck_.'

'Where have you been?' Rowena demanded, absorbing the full extent of his dilapidated appearance.

'Oh, where _haven't_ I been?' he countered, assuming the tone of the great story-teller. 'I could certainly tell you some interesting trivia about the senior members of the royal family, I'll say that much.'

'What?'

'I've spied! Fought! Courted, travelled, explored! Entertained the emperors; danced with the devil; battled the rogues; been robbed at gunpoint in a Turkish brothel…_ah_…been mugged by a transvestite Viking, strung up from a tree by my left shoe and beaten with a little wooden club…gambled gratuitous amounts of money and clothing in an alcohol-fuelled haze…' He lowered his voice, but continued to smile. 'See where I'm going with this?'

'Oh God,' said Rowena, wincing, 'I've just remembered the reason I'm so painfully sensible.'

Richard ignored her, instead turning to Helga with a wide grin. 'Ah – Olga, isn't it?' He proceeded to open his arms and embrace her in a hug so constrictive that her feet actually left the ground. 'My, haven't you grown!'

'Er,' Helga squeaked, mid-crush, 'it's _Helga,_ actually.'

He let go, and stared at her calculatingly for a moment or two, before suddenly remembering, 'Yes, Helga! That's it, of course. Helga Hoffle—'

'Huffle.'

'—pot.'

'_Puff_.'

'Ah yes. Little Helga.' He looked her briefly up and down, and corrected himself, 'Well, little-ish. Certainly more developed in the bust department, which I think suits you _marvellously_ by the way—'

'Richard!' Rowena squeaked, as Helga's eyes shot open. 'Put the girl down!'

He obediently did so, moving nonchalantly onto a seething Godric and patting him on the back. 'I don't believe we've met, sir?'

'Er, this is Godric,' said Rowena, as Godric growled dangerously, 'Gryffindor. Pleasant chap. Er, perhaps you have people in common?'

'Gryffindor?' Richard repeated. 'Don't think I know any Gryffindors, unless you happen to have a rather well-muscled sister living in the Flemish regions?'

Godric stared in furious disbelief.

'No?' he continued, apparently unable to detect the other man's mood. 'Didn't think so. Lovely woman – small bust, long legs, could count to ten in Yiddish.'

Rowena winced again. She somehow managed to whimper, '_Right_. Well, thank you for that description, Richard, we'll certainly know her if we see her.'

He gave a short laugh, turning back to a blushing Helga with a particularly amorous look in his eyes. 'Don't give her my address, whatever you do. I still have her earrings.'

She began to ask, 'Why do—?' but decided she really didn't want to know.

Oh yes.

He was back, alright.

000000000000

'Haven't you finished soul-searching yet?' Xavier demanded.

Salazar shrugged. 'I finished a couple of hours ago; I'm just waiting for you to get bored. Or freeze to death,' he added, wistfully.

'You've finished?' Sophia looked up in all eagerness, abandoning her anatomically correct snowman and gluing herself to Salazar. 'What are you going to do? What's your plan?'

'My plan,' he announced, raising his chin, 'is to create a foolproof plan.'

This was met by mutually dissatisfied stares. 'Your plan is to create a plan?' Xavier echoed, disbelievingly.

'Yes.'

'Regarding _what_, pray tell? The acceptance of the role of fate in your petty life, or—?'

'The other thing,' Salazar finished, smugly.

Sophia growled and returned to her snowman. Xavier sighed. '_So_ glad you have your priorities in order,' he muttered, bitterly. 'I'd hate to think you were ignoring the ancient magic that governs your every movement in exchange for hugs and snuggles with your favourite Ravenclaw.'

Salazar recoiled slightly. "Hugs and snuggles" were not words that one liked to associate with Xavier Malfoy. Or Salazar Slytherin. Or, for that matter, Rowena Ravenclaw. It sounded too…_eugh_.

But instead of attempting to verbalise this, he just muttered, 'Piss off.'

'You disgust me.'

'Find a hobby.'

'Oh, but _you're _our hobby, William,' said Xavier, with a false smile, 'you, and everything about you.' His smile faded to a scowl as he withdrew his wand and growled, 'Now keep soul-searching, or I'll blast your knackers off.'

000000000000

_Salazar still isn't back._

_Salazar still isn't back._

_Richard keeps ogling Helga._

_Salazar still isn't back._

_I can't force the image of Godric's masculine nipples from my fragile little mind._

_And Salazar still isn't back._

_Salazar still isn't back._

_Salazar still isn't back._

_Nipples._

As the words circled Rowena's mind without relief, she found it increasingly difficult to absorb new and importantinformation, like _My brother is here_, and _he's lost all our money_, and_ Helga's looking increasingly nervous at those looks he keeps giving her._

They were in the Great Hall. Several students had made amateur attempts to spy on them, but to no avail: each time a face appeared at the window, Helga threw something at it.

Godric had exited the situation as rapidly as propriety allowed, Richard's enthusiastic tales of ale and wenches overwhelming his genteel sensibilities. Fortunately enough, he'd soon been replaced by Anatole, who was vaguely curious as to why Helga and Rowena had been involved in an all-out brawl in front of at least three passing students, and soon fell into casual patter with Helga while Rowena listened to her brother:

'I spent about three months in the swamplands,' he continued, speaking, as ever, through a wide grin, 'which was rather pleasant until the novelty wore off. Then a group of natives took me as their spirit guide and forced me to walk around with a pierced belly-button and perform all their religious ceremonies, which I daresay was an amusing experience…'

She hadn't really expected this. She'd expected him to ride in on a horse, having eaten, drank and wenched himself to a happy oblivion, if he even returned at all. She had _not_ expected one thousand and one tales of high-times in foreign climbs, most of which ended with either, "and they now worship my name on a Tuesday, isn't that delightful?" or, "I just pulled up my trousers and hopped out of the window before the bugger had chance to shoot me".

_And Salazar still isn't back._

'That's…delightful, Richard,' she said with raised eyebrows, as he yet again concluded that a small, hitherto undiscovered country had been named after him. 'You've done very well for yourself. I think.'

He beamed at her proudly, the thin line of his smile stretching across his emaciated face. 'And _you_ work at a school!'

'I _own _the school,' she corrected him, for the fifth time that night.

'Oh yes. And Helga,' he said, craning his neck to see over her shoulder, 'she's grown charming, hasn't she?'

Rowena groaned, a disgusted expression crossing her face. 'Eugh, Richard! She's my best friend, for Christ's sake.'

'She must have only been ten or so, the last time I saw her,' he continued, evidently ignoring her. 'Who's she talking to?'

'Anatole. He's a vampire.'

'Ah.' He wavered uncertainly for a moment. 'Ought I to save her?'

'I don't think that'll be necessary.'

'No act of heroism?'

'She'd punch you in the face.'

He exhaled in relief. 'Thank god. He may be short, but I've had enough bad experiences with dwarves to trigger nasty flashbacks.' He shuddered. 'Powerful thighs, you know.'

Not for the first time that day, Rowena decided she didn't want to know.

He continued to stare over her shoulder, and observed, 'Beautiful hair, hasn't she?'

'Richard, I swear to god I will have you sterilised.'

He looked away, slightly injured. 'Why?'

'You're unnerving the girl!'

'Don't be silly. _She's_ staring at _me_.'

'Yes, with a rising look of panic in her eyes. I mean it, Richard – you don't just gallivant into _my _castle and sex up the first woman you lay eyes on.'

'I never got the hang of gallivanting,' he murmured, thoughtfully. 'Tried it once in a Turkish brothel, but we all know how _that_ evening turned out.'

'Are you even listening to me?' she demanded.

'Yes? Yes, yes.' He tore his eyes away from Helga once more, and back into hers. 'No sexing, promise.' He grinned, and pulled her into an unexpected, powerful hug while her arms flailed around madly. 'It's so marvellous to see you again, Ro. Just like when we were kids – you always telling me off, always covering up my mistakes…'

'_Iddybaddu_,' Rowena rasped in response, because Richard was holding rather tightly.

'I'm certainly glad that one of us matured, anyway. All grown up! Living in a castle! In…_Scotland_, of all places!'

'_Cabbee!_'

'What was that?'

'_Can't – breathe!_'

'Ah! I see.' He quickly let go of her, and watched with mild amusement as she wheezed her breath back. 'Just like the old days, eh, Ro?'

Once confident she could feel her pulse again, Rowena straightened up and replied, 'Well, sort of – I am slightly _older_ now.'

He sobered up for the first time since entering the castle to reply, 'Yes, Ro. Which is why I shall devote my time to defending your honour against any number of lecherous men wishing to compromise your purity.' After a pause, he added, 'As long as they're not dwarves. Then you're on your own.'

Rowena took the time to imagine Richard challenging a bemused Salazar to a round of fisticuffs, "thou libidinous villain!", before quickly pretending she didn't as it made her brain hurt.

Eventually she decided to go with, 'Er, thanks. That's very nice of you.'

'You do _have_ your purity, don't you?'

'_Richard!_'

'I'm just checking!' he cried, throwing his arms up defensively. 'I don't want my sister flinging her chastity into the streets for every rapscallion that comes along.' He lowered his voice to add, 'What about Helga – how's her purity doing nowadays?'

'Long sinceabandoned.'

He grinned. 'Excellent.'

Rowena couldn't look more disgusted if Godric hopped into the room with his foot sticky-taped to his groin.

'And what about you?' she demanded, as a long-ago memory stirred. 'What the hell happened to Prunella?'

'Who?'

'Prunella? Your _wife?_'

'Ah. Yes,' he said, slightly uncomfortably, 'good old Pru. Yes, she's in Normandy, I believe.'

'Where's Normandy?'

'France.'

'What's she doing in France?'

'Half of Normandy,' he admitted, weakly. As Rowena stared naively, he explained, 'She left me. Ran into the warm embrace of another man's thighs.'

Rowena winced. 'Oh. I'm sorry.'

He shrugged it off. 'Well, we _had_ been married over two months. Can't expect to keep a girl chained down forever…ha-ha?' he suggested, uncertainly.

'Ha-ha,' Rowena agreed, sympathetically. 'It, er, obviously wasn't meant to be.'

He shrugged again. 'I'm young; I'm twenty-three. I've got at least a good ten years left before I catch the plague or die of an embarrassing illness. But a man does get lonely.' He sighed, but perked up again as he added, 'That's why I bought Clarence, you see?'

Rowena wrinkled her nose. 'Please tell me honestly, Richard: did you have sex with that chicken?'

'Don't be disgusting.'

'Sorry.'

'We made love.'

Pause.

'That was a joke,' he added, hurriedly.

'_Ohdeargodmyeyes_…'

'Calm down,' he demanded, shaking her shoulders, 'Clarence isn't that sort of chicken!'

Once her mind felt slightly less sullied, she pushed his hands away and decided that a rapid change of conversation was in order: 'How did you get here, anyway? How did you find me?'

'Oh, it was easy,' he said, with uncharacteristic modesty. 'I just jumped out of the longboat in a hand-fashioned kayak, disguised as an onboard prostitute; sailed for about a month in the wrong direction before jumping aboard a passing merchant ship and fighting off the advances of fourteen deckhands who hadn't seen a woman in a _very_ long time; eventually abandoned ship when France loomed into view and smuggled myself into the country disguised as a coy young seamstress boy—'

'Skip to the end?' Rowena suggested, hopefully.

'—hitch-hiked, smuggled and walked across the country until I reached Granny Agnes' house; was promptly beaten with a stuffed mammal of some kind but managed to read through her letters; an amusing misadventure involving a whipping-stick and a lonely washerwoman later and here I am!'

Rowena winced. 'Whipping-stick?'

'All very amusing,' he assured her. 'Anyway, I passed out in a field a few weeks ago, and ended up here.'

'Oh? How'd that happen?'

'Don't know; don't care.' He grinned again. 'More wine?'

'Er…ok.' She summoned him a glass of the weakest alcohol she could manage, knowing that his taste buds were probably too numb to notice the difference anymore. 'What happened to your wand?'

He shrugged. 'I've been living as a muggle for years. I probably traded it for something.'

'Prostitutes,' Rowena mumbled.

'Not _necessarily_ prostitutes.' He swallowed his beverage in one long gulp, and released a contented sigh of relief before adding, 'Don't get the wrong idea about me, Ro – most of the time we just chatted and played cards.'

'Really?'

'_Most_ of the time.' He grinned as Helga, watching him with a kind of alarmed fascination, sidled up to them cautiously. 'What ho.'

'What ho,' Helga agreed, with absolutely no idea of what she way saying. 'It's, er, nice to see you again, Richard.'

'And it's _very _nice to see you again, Helg — _ow!_' He rubbed his shoulder, giving Rowena a particularly injured look, and demanded, 'What? I wasn't sexing!'

Rowena elbowed him again for good measure. 'You were undressing her with your eyes!'

'Was _not!_'

Helga ventured, 'Er?'

'You _were_,' Rowena insisted, aiming for his injured rib, 'and we'll have no more of it, thank you very much!'

Richard was, reluctantly, subdued. Helga again ventured, 'Er?'

With his eyes obediently fixed on his shoes to avoid accidentally undressing anything with anything else, he said, 'Then I enquire after your health.'

'Er…I've got a bit of a cramp in my leg,' Helga offered, uncertainly.

'Ah? How awful. Is it causing you any great deal of discomfort?'

'Er—'

Rowena tuned out. As soon as she did so, the phrase _Salazar isn't back yet_ stormed angrily through her mind, so she tuned back in.

Thirty seconds later, unable to tolerate any more in-depth, subtext-heavy discussions about muscular contractions, she drifted over to Anatole, who watched the pair with a look of fascinated horror.

'Seems like a…charming man, your brother,' he observed, with grudging honesty.

Rowena nodded. 'Yeah. Charming, for an inheritance-grabbing drunkard.'

'You can't hold that against him – he was only fifteen when your parents died, with no sense of responsibility and deeply upset by the whole thing.'

'How the hell do you know that?'

'Er, Helga told me,' he admitted, shamefacedly, 'along with a detailed, step-by-step analysis of your past relationship and early home life, and suggestions of how this will effect your future together as siblings.'

Rowena winced. 'Jesus. What did she conclude?'

'No idea. She got distracted every time he looked at her.'

They simultaneously recoiled in disgust as Richard, gaze still firmly on his feet, said something amusing enough to prompt a giggle from Helga.

'Did you hear that?' Rowena demanded. 'A _giggle_. This can only end badly.'

'Don't you trust—?'

'No.'

'Oh. Right.' He looked her up and down, as if seeing her for the first time, and asked, 'Where's Professor Slytherin?'

And Rowena, for no reason at all, punched him.

It was just that kind of day.


	11. Chapter 11: Brown

**Chapter Eleven: Brown**

Richard was not the kind of man to be deterred by the threat of physical violence, though god knows, she'd tried. But after the third kick in the shin, Rowena was forced to accept that his flirtation was more than a mere hobby.

So she attempted Plan B:

'Helga dear, don't you have a lesson to plan?'

Helga spared her a brief glance and said, 'No, I did it ages ago.' She returned her attention to Richard and continued, '_Anyway,_ that's when my great uncle Ulrich stole her badger, you see…'

Rowena growled. That left her with no choice but Plan C:

'Helga dear, don't you have a penis?'

Helga choked. Quickly taking advantage of this moment of confusion, Rowena grabbed her brother by the wrist and dragged him from the room while he shouted his goodbyes.

'Farewell, Helga! Our time is cut short—'

'Shut up,' Rowena pleaded, as they exited the room.

'I look forward to learning more of your uncle Ulrich!'

'Stop it!' Once certain they were out of earshot, she released his wrist and hissed, 'While you're under my roof, you'll keep it in your trousers! Got that?'

'_Ouch_. Why are the staircases moving?'

She elbowed him again.

'_Ouch!_ Yes, yes, fine, I've got it.' He grinned and added, 'She _is _charming though, isn't she?'

Rowena growled again. She was doing a lot of that recently. 'There's a nice little brothel in the village, if that's what you're looking for. You'll keep your greasy fingers away from Helly.'

Richard sighed. 'Yes, yes, fine.' He grinned again, and swooped in for another bone-splintering embrace. 'Just like the good old days, eh, Ro?'

'Frighteningly so,' she agreed, attempting to wriggle away. But his grasp didn't loosen and she was forced to submit, resting her head against his shoulder in a rather pathetic manner, flinching as his voice boomed into her ear:

'I've missed you terribly, you know.' Rowena didn't reply. 'I wish I'd shared the money with you.'

'Me too,' said Rowena.

'I'm sure you would've put it to a much better use.'

'Yeah. I would.'

'But I never stopped thinking about you, you know. Wherever I went.'

'What,' she muttered, voice muffled by his shoulder, 'while you were quaffing ale and having sex with all those foreign women?'

'Well…no,' he admitted, thoughtfully, 'no, I daresay I was rather forcing you from my mind at that point.' He released her from his grip, holding tightly to her shoulders and beaming at her unnerved expression. 'You've grown so _tall_.'

'And you smell so _awful_.'

He released her shoulders and sniffed his shirt experimentally. 'Do I?'

'Like you've been recently coated in goose fat.'

He sniffed again. 'Really? But that was_ days_ ago, now...'

Rowena stared.

'I wanted to slippy-slide,' he added, by means of explanation.

_Do not want to know. Do not want to know_. 'Have a bath,' she pleaded, 'and a shave. And eat something. And please, _please_, don't explain why you wanted to slippy-slide. Just—'

'That's back to the washerwoman and the whipping-stick, I'm afraid.'

'—right.' She closed her eyes. 'Right. That's great. That's just…' She sighed, and headed in the direction of Ravenclaw tower. 'That's great.'

Richard trotted obediently behind her.

0000000000000

It was sometime later that Salazar Slytherin knocked against the door of Rowena's office and, hearing no reply, continued up the stairs to her private chambers. In an act of spectacularly bad timing, he entered her room at eight thirty-five in the evening.

At eight thirty-_four_ that evening, Richard Ravenclaw, gleaming with bathwater, stepped into a pair of freshly washed trousers while his sister tidied the bathroom in his wake, a disgusted expression on her face.

'I'm clean!' cried Richard, his grin spreading high up his face. 'I haven't been clean in _ages_.'

'Please tell me,' said Rowena, raising her voice to be heard from the bathroom, 'you have bathed at least once during the last eight years.'

'Oh yes.' An unseen twinkle appeared in his eyes as he added, 'In _fact_, while entertaining the beautiful Queen of Bauchnabel, we managed to—'

'Don't want to know!'

'Right. Sorry.' He had the good grace to look sheepish, at least. 'I forgot.'

'Well try and remember, will you? This could have a detrimental effect on my sanity.'

At which point, Salazar entered the room.

He cocked an eyebrow, but the expression soon melted into bafflement. He rolled his eye over the person who stood before him – the eyes, the hair, the skin, the stance – and, after a very long and very uncertain pause, finally ventured, 'Ravenclaw…?'

Richard brazenly extended a hand and said, 'Ah, what ho, dear boy. Have we met?'

Salazar recoiled. After an undignified pause, he again ventured, '_Ravenclaw?_'

Fortunately for all concerned, Rowena chose that moment to appear from the bathroom, answering some of his questions while raising many others. Salazar looked between the two in horror.

'Ravenclaw,' he managed to say, at last, 'who _is_ this naked man?'

Rowena's heart, lungs and intestines leapt into her throat as he spoke. 'Um,' she squeaked, not daring to move any closer to either of them, but craning her neck to see over Richard's shoulder and into Salazar's baffled eyes. 'He's not naked – he's got, um, trousers on…'

Salazar continued to stare between them. Richard looked affably back. Then he again demanded, 'Who _is_ he?'

'Richard Ravenclaw,' Richard beamed, shaking him roughly by the hand. 'Rowena's brother. And chaperone,' he added, hintingly.

Rowena winced. 'I – I don't really think that's necessary, Richard…'

'Men are depraved sex maniacs,' he insisted, flexing what little muscle he had and remaining, resolutely, between Salazar and Rowena. 'Trust me. I should take a serious beating before I allowed a stranger to barge into your chambers.'

Rowena made a few horrified noises.

Salazar was back. He was in her room. His eyebrow was travelling with him. And he was staring at her with a similar look of horror, trapped at the door by a semi-naked drunkard who, if her ears hadn't deceived her, had just threatened to box him should he come any further.

Christ in a Norfolk wherry.

'Richard,' she said, struggling to keep her abnormally high-pitched tone sounding even remotely calm, 'this is – this is Professor Slytherin, my, er, co-founder.'

Richard released a sudden laugh, and relaxed slightly. 'Ah, thank the lord for that. I thought you were going to say he was your beloved! And then I'd have to kill you,' he added dangerously, to Salazar.

Rowena failed to suppress an awkward cry of, '_Eugh-ha!_'

A very long silence ensued.

Rowena, afraid to look at Salazar – and what the hell was he doing in her room?! – stared at her brother's right shoulder blade, unable to drag her eyes that extra inch upwards and meet his gaze once more.

_He thinks I'm an idiot. He thinks I'm such a little idiot._

A very long silence continued.

Richard looked between the two innocently. Finally he asked, 'Did you want something, dear boy?'

The very long silence got a little bit longer.

Then Salazar said, 'No. It doesn't matter.'

And he left.

'Oh,' said Richard, as the door closed after him. 'He seemed like a nice chap, didn't – _ow!_' He rubbed the back of his head and glared. 'What the hell did you do that for?'

'I could kill you, Richard, do you know that?!'

'What? _Ow!_ I didn't do any – _ow!_'

And it was at _this_ point, as Richard attempted to fend off his sister in a rather ineffective manner and Rowena attempted to headbutt her brother in a considerably _more_ effective manner, that Salazar's face reappeared at the door. Both siblings froze.

'By the way,' he said, 'I'll be seeing you in the forth floor cleaner's cupboard at nine o'clock, as usual.' And he winked, in a rather obvious way, and left again.

The silence returned. Richard and Rowena stared, wide-eyed, at the closed door, neither noticing that they were still frozen in time, hands clamped around each other's wrists, trapped mid-headbutt.

'W-what did he say?' Richard demanded, after a while.

'Er?' said Rowena. It was all that sprung to mind.

'A _cleaner's cupboard?!_'

'…Er?'

He finally released her wrists, swiftly turning his back on her and dragging on a fresh shirt. 'Not on my watch, you don't!'

'Er—'

'Oh, I think _not!_' He opened the door dramatically, sparing himself a final glance in the mirror (naturally), before declaring, 'He'll have to get through me first, mark my words!' and departing in a melodramatic fury.

'Er,' said Rowena again, pointing weakly after him as the door slammed shut, 'but that's – that's _Hat's _room…'

000000000

Rowena stared at the closed door for some time after they'd left. She fumbled for a seat and fell into it. She realised she'd been holding a deep breath, and finally released it. Then she let out a very small, concentrated scream and tugged at her hair for a while.

Hat's cupboard. At nine o'clock. Which was about five minutes away.

And – and the _wink_.

Well, obviously he didn't mean it. _Obviously_. Because he knew Richard was there, and he knew Richard could see him. He was, _obviously_, trying to lure Richard away from her.

_But why was he trying to lure Richard away from her?!_

Calm calm calm. Don't hyperventilate, now.

Oh…but what did he _want?_ Had she accidentally signalled SOS with her eyelids? Was he about to corner him in the corridor and take him out with a cosh? Because _that_ wouldn't be good! He'd tell Granny Agnes on her!

Calm calm _calm_, woman! That would be one of the least likely outcomes of their meeting. He probably just wanted to talk to her. He wanted to talk about…important…things…

Oh, who are you kidding?! He wants to talk to you about the kissing! He wants to take you down with a hypodermic syringe and tell you to stop bothering him! You're an idiot and you should be locked up for public safety, or forced to parade through the streets with a bell around you neck so people know you're approaching and can duck for cover down side-streets before you have chance to defile their eyebrows!

CALM!

He wanted her to do something. To go somewhere. To talk about something. Did he really want her to be outside Hat's cupboard in three-and-a-half minutes? Or should she wait here, or hide in the bathroom?

She didn't want to talk to him. She didn't want to see him ever again. Because if he wasn't as destroyed and tormented as she was, she was just a stupid girl with an enthusiastic crush who should've got over it by now, goddammit_, _and it _hurt…_

It was nine o'clock. She cursed herself, and every fibre of her being, and closed her eyes and blasphemed. Then she slowly made her way downstairs.

000000000

At exactly nine o'clock, Richard Ravenclaw barged purposely into the fourth floor cleaner's cupboard and shouted, 'I'll rip your ears off if you try anything!' while his brain added, _Unless you're a dwarf, a vampire, a lady or, you know, a big fellow with muscles and biceps and things._

He had chance to glimpse overturned furniture, broken mops and empty ale pitchers, and some anatomically incorrect graffiti scrawled across the back wall. The instantly familiar odour of home-brewed alcohol and dust swamped his nostrils. Then the door slammed shut behind him, plunging him into unfamiliar darkness.

He paused to consider his situation. So far, it wasn't great.

Then a rough, scorched voice from the shadows asked, 'Do ye be a whore?' and things became a great deal worse.

'Ah,' said Richard pensively, extending a careful hand to scratch his freshly shaven jaw. 'I _do_ believe I've been had.' He offered a friendly hand to the shadows and said, 'What ho, my good man. I'm Richard Ravenclaw, the estranged brother of—'

He didn't get much further, because the thing he'd first taken to be an empty potato sack leapt from the shadows and clamped its mouth around his fingers. Richard screeched and fell over.

So far, not at all good.

000000000

Rowena held her breath. The fifth floor beckoned. Hastily tussling her hair, pinching her cheeks and colouring her lips (not that she was making any effort _at all_), she released a cool, steadying breath, turned the corner, and…

Bugger.

Nothing.

She frowned, folding her arms huffily. Every corridor she travelled took a little more nerve to approach, and if she didn't find Salazar soon she was fairly sure she'd suffer a mental collapse.

Right then; fourth floor. Here I bloody-well-come…

It was here, as she began her descent down the stone staircase, that the voice of her subconscious piped up: _Just what the hell are you doing here, woman? You're just going to humiliate yourself again! Save yourself the pain and go back to bed. You've got marking to catch up on._

Rowena paused, her foot hovering above the penultimate step. She glanced behind her to the inviting emptiness she'd left behind. She took a step back—

_Whoa there, woman! Don't turn back now! _

_- What? But you just told me to!_

_Are you insane? You've come this far! And I don't mean geographically – I mean, look at you and Salazar._

_- Yeah, exactly. Look at me kissing his bloody eyebrow._

_And he didn't take too much offence at that, did he?_

_- He was speechless!_

_You kissed his eyebrow! What did you expect, a twenty-minute dissertation? _

_- Well…no, but—_

_What have you got to lose?_

_- Er, my dignity, sense of self-respect, the happy delusion that Salazar could ever like me, my personal happiness, my—_

_Alright, calm down, Jesus. Look: just think about Salazar for a minute. I mean, __**really **__think about him. Right?_

_- Er…ok._

_Now, how do you feel?_

_- I refuse to answer that question._

_Happy, right?_

_- Well…mainly, yes. __**Mainly **__happy. Ridiculously happy, actually…and warm and giddy and close to him and safe and—_

_Ok, now you're embarrassing yourself._

_- Oh – sorry. But, I mean, I don't __**just **__feel happy – I mean, there's so much I don't trust about him! Why can't I remember the end of the party? Who's Cray? Why was Heather so afraid of him? Why is it easier with Heather? Why did – _

_Shut up! Stop thinking. Stop worrying. You're __**happy. **__What are you afraid of – actually getting something you want?_

_- Er…no. That's back to my dignity, sense of self-respect, the happy delusion that Salazar could ever like me, my personal happiness, my—_

_Shut up._

_- You're doing a pretty shit job of being my conscience, I must say._

_You're the one having conversations with yourself on an empty staircase._

_- Point being?_

_Are you going to take the final step?_

_- Ooh, I like it. Very symbolic. "Final step", indeed—_

_No, I just mean that the staircase is starting to move._

_- Oh, buggery._

Rowena jumped, crash-landing on the floor with a distinct lack of grace.

And Salazar helped her to her feet again.

000000

'Ah, Hat,' Richard near-sobbed, giddy with delight as he pulled the cork from an ancient green bottle. 'Hat, you're my best friend in the world!'

'Ach,' said Hat, uncertainly. He shuffled a short distance away from the big Jessie with poufy hair, privately convinced that he was far too drunk for the small amount of alcohol he'd actually consumed. 'S'alright, pal.'

'Brown wine!' Richard continued, cradling the open bottle like a newborn child. 'The elusive brown wine! Hat, the last time I drank brown wine I went blind for a week!'

'Aye?'

'Aye! I'm fairly sure it's been milked from the teats of Satan himself!'

'Aye?' said Hat, with renewed interest. He shuffled slightly towards his new drinking buddy. 'I havenae drank this ale!'

Richard looked at Hat sternly, covering the open neck of the bottle as if covering its delicate ears. 'This isn't _ale_, dear boy – this is wine! _Brown _wine!'

'Ach! Wine is for wimmin'!'

'Oh yes,' he agreed, unconvincingly. 'Yes, it's certainly a woman's drink. You wouldn't like it at all.' He raised it to his nose and took a long, savouring sniff, before breaking out in a series of coughs and splutters that almost knocked him backwards. 'Ah! It's burning my eyeballs already! Beautiful!'

'Ach…can I have a sniff – ?'

'No, you wouldn't like it.'

'Pish!'

'It's best I just take this from you, if you'd be kind enough to open the door—'

'_Pish_, ye pouf! ALE!' Hat launched himself at his chest with force, brim sucking desperately at the bottle in his hands.

The scream released by Richard Ravenclaw as the mysterious brown wine was knocked from his grip, splintering against the floor and partly disintegrating the flagstones, was haunting to say the least. But the sight of him dropping to his hands and knees, desperately licking the alcohol while whimpering in pain at its strength, was plain ludicrous. And it was this scene upon which Helga Hufflepuff stumbled, and this position that Richard accordingly snapped out of. Quickly.

'Ah, Helga!' he beamed, assuming a bright grin despite the watering of his eyeballs. 'I was hoping to see you again!'

Helga stared. On the long list of things she hadn't expected to see upon opening Hat's cupboard, near the top was Richard Ravenclaw orgasmically licking the floor. She tried to say "er?", but found herself physically unable.

Richard coughed slightly, and attempted to subtly climb to his feet. 'Funny seeing you here…'

'Is it?' she managed to ask, weakly.

'I, ah, believe you've met my friend Hat?'

Helga's eyes darted between the two of them, paying particular heed to Hat as he, too, sucked at the floor. 'Er.'

Very discreetly, Richard began to brush himself down. 'I suppose you're, ah, wondering what I'm doing here...'

'It – it _had_ crossed my mind.'

'…but that's another story for another day! What ho?'

'Er…' She shrugged helplessly. 'Alright?'

Grinning politely, Richard managed to manoeuvre himself around Helga's stunned frame, shooting a final forlorn glance at the vanishing brown substance rapidly disappearing into Hat. Helga just continued to stare at him, frozen in disbelief. He tactfully cleared his throat.

'Now Helga, dear, I wonder if you could do me a couple of favours?'

Helga was silent for a few seconds, before realising he'd addressed her and snapping out of it. 'Er…ok. What?'

'Fantastic.' He closed the cupboard door behind them, unable to tolerate the sound of Hat's contended slurping. 'First of all, could you be an angel and never, _ever_ repeat what you just saw – especially to a certain young Ravenclaw we have in common? Ah-ha…'

Helga shrugged. 'Ok.'

'Secondly, could you do your very best to forget these said events?'

She shrugged again, smiling slightly. 'I'll try.'

'And – and thirdly,' he said, taking a slightly shaky step towards her and clasping her hands in his. 'Thirdly, could you be an absolute _dear_ and tell me the origin of that…_delightful_ brown wine?'

Helga's brow wrinkled in confusion. 'That? That's Brown Badger, 908.' Richard stared uncomprehendingly. She explained, 'My parents own the most unsuccessful vineyard in England – it's a Hufflepuff export. Why?'

Richard fell to his knees once more, retaining his hold on her hands to plead, 'Darling, marry me – I've got a nine-inch tongue and I can breathe through my ears!'

000000

'I didn't fall over,' Rowena insists, despite the obvious evidence to the contrary.

'Course not,' Salazar dutifully agrees.

'It was an entirely planned procedure from first to last, and I consider it a great success.'

'Right. So when you were on the floor, swearing to high heaven on the subject of those bastard moving staircases, you were in fact…?'

'Merely reflecting aloud.'

'I see.'

Slight pause. It's not entirely uncomfortable. Neither of them are really looking at each other, but that's ok because they both seem to have lost the ability to do so. Nothing weird about that, oh no.

Rowena clears her throat. Salazar does the same. The action seems to be a non-verbal way of saying, Yes, there's certainly nothing strange about the way we're stood at opposite sides of the corridor, deliberately avoiding both eye contact and the Kiss that Dare Not Speak its Name. Nope. Not at all.

And Rowena releases a long breath as a way of filling the silence, while silently wondering why her head is spinning, eyes are burning, mouth is dry, throat is swollen, stomach is churning, legs are buzzing and arms are in direct mutiny against her, being, as they are, desperate to reach out and grab him and just hold on to him, though she doesn't know why and to what purpose. She just _really _wants to be attached to him for a while.

'Well,' says Salazar, after a further period of silence.

Rowena agrees, 'Yeah.'

'Yeah.'

'Mm.'

Rowena mentally slams her head against the wall, many times. She forces the words from her mouth: 'So…did you want to talk to me, or something?'

'Er, yeah,' says Salazar, uncertainly. 'Er…go in there.' He points to the empty classroom nearby, momentarily wincing at his choice of vocabulary. But Rowena doesn't really notice, instead choosing to wipe the sweat from her hands before reaching for the door handle and stumbling inside. Salazar follows. They're far too accustomed to private conversations in empty classrooms, and the outcome is seldom promising.

'Right,' says Salazar once they're inside, attempting to sober up. 'Er…I thought we should talk, or something.'

'Right,' Rowena agrees, nodding stupidly as if he's said something more substantial. She refrains from asking "about what?", because the mere thought makes her want to vomit. As he turns his back on her, she quickly adjusts her hair (again) and takes a nervous step backwards.

'Right. Right…well — shit, are you ok?!'

Rowena can only squeak pitifully as the world slips away from her; she steps nervously backwards, stands on the hem of her dress and, with thundering inevitability, hits the ground backwards.

And neither of them move.

Rowena, laid flat on her back and staring at the ceiling, just closes her eyes. After a while she manages to whimper, '_No…_'

She doesn't look at Salazar as he stands over her, but silently extends a feeble hand towards him in hope of being helped to her feet. The move goes ignored. Instead, Salazar sighs, sits on the floor beside her and, calculating each move, lies on his back. Silence returns, though Rowena can hear something thudding against her ribcage.

Salazar says, 'Aren't you going to look at me?'

'Wasn't planning to, no.'

'Fine.' He joins her, staring blindly at the ceiling. 'Then let's talk.'


	12. Chapter 12: Talk

**Chapter Twelve: Talk**

'What's going on?' Sophia demanded.

'Would you kindly shut up, my dear?'

'I can't see—'

'There's nothing there, that's – _argh_, you demonic—'

'I can't _see!_ Let me have a go.'

'You can't see,' Xavier explained wearily, massaging his recently bitten elbow, 'because there's nothing _to _see. I've done it perfectly right, thank you very—'

'Prod it with your wand.'

'Sophia, it's a magic ball! Wands don't figure into the damn thing!'

'I'll use mine then.'

'Soph—'

'_Work, you bloody piece of bastard!_'

'Sophia! Really!'

'Show me William! Show me William! _Will-ee-am_, do you understand?!'

He rolled his eyes. 'Yes, that's told it. Well done, Soph: fourteen points to Bruntt house.'

'_William Slytherin! Salazar William Slytherin!_'

Xavier sighed and took a seat. It'd take a while for her mood to pass, so he observed the glass from a different angle while she screamed at it, the heat of her breath misting the surface and confusing the smoky images within the bowl as they flitted between scenes. Snakes, trees, wolves, eyes…he sighed again, massaging his temples tiredly as Sophia's rampage continued.

He'd always said crystal balls were unreliable. Bloody novelty items, really; paddled by the kind of muggles who think that a wart and hook nose qualify them in the art of the mystic. He'd write this one off as a fake if not for the price he'd paid for it. No: it simply seemed that Salazar's mind was harder to break than he'd first imagined. No matter. He'd just have to try harder in the future.

'Soph,' he said boredly, as she shook the object in blind frustration, 'you're going to break it.'

'Show me what he's doing!' she screamed, fingernails scraping across the glass. 'Show me what he's thinking, I order you!' She held the ball steady and stared expectantly into its depths. Then she screamed again, throwing it into the ready arms of Xavier and storming from the room to rip the guts from the postman.

Xavier read the crystal and smirked, despite himself.

_Aske ye againe later._

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They could have been statues: arms laid peacefully by their sides, locked in stillness; a monument to another time and another life, long past and long forgotten. They stared at the ceiling as if it was the centre of their shared universe. If not for the fact that Rowena had just called Salazar a scrotum, it could have been poetic.

Instead, Salazar raised a startled eyebrow. 'Beg your pardon?'

'You heard,' she replied, still staring at the ceiling. It was the first thing either of them had said since Salazar had joined her on the floor. That's right – two and a half minutes of deep, shared silence, shattered by an accusation based around the genitals. Sometimes, Rowena really hated herself.

Salazar's eyebrow remained cocked. '_Why?_'

She heard the words leaving her lips, and desperately tried to convince herself she hadn't spoken them: 'For scrotal reasons, mainly.'

Oh god, oh god! Already, it had set in. The combination of nerves, high emotion and near-hysteria, squashing her heart and lungs and compelling her to speak a load of utter crap without actually knowing why or where it was going. Oh god. Oh god.

Salazar didn't respond for a few moments. He glanced at her, then away again. His mouth opened and closed a few times. Finally, voice torn with confusion, he again demanded, '_Why?_'

Rowena screwed her eyes shut, as if in anticipation of an explosion. 'For – for reasons of scrotivity, emanating from the scrotum, in a scrotastic manner that belies the true scrotalism of the…economic context of mainland Europe.'

'Rowena?'

'Yes?'

'Don't talk.'

'Ok.'

'Ever.'

'Ok.'

He kissed her.

Twenty seconds or so later she realised this and rapidly pulled her head away, banging it against the stone floor. It would take another minute or so for this to sink in. So instead she just blinked, and stared at him.

He stared calmly back. The tiniest trace of self-conscious doubt appeared in his features, quickly masked by a look of cool cockiness.

'How was that?' he asked.

Rowena blinked again.

'Ravenclaw?'

She got around to exhaling.

'Er…Ravenclaw?'

'Scrotastic,' she muttered, with a grin.

'Ah.' He smiled. 'I was hoping it'd tend that way.'

'I think my head's bleeding.'

'What, as a direct result?'

'Um, no,' she said, beginning to sit up straight but abandoning the effort mid-way and resting on her elbows. 'I hit it on the ceiling.'

'The floor, you mean.'

'That's the one.'

'Right.'

'Did you just kiss me?'

Salazar coughed slightly, mentally attuning himself to Planet Ravenclaw. 'I think we covered this already.'

'I may be concussed.'

'Oh.' He considered the implications of this statement. Rowena attempted to do the same, but couldn't get past the fact that her lips were still moist with his saliva.

She hadn't even reached the phase of persistent self-doubt when she was wondering what this meant and what was going through his mind and what was going to happen next; at that present moment, her inner-narrative was still flailing around in a pleasantly senseless puddle. Although that may well have been the concussion.

Either way, she was rather satisfied with the results and decided that as soon as she could string a sentence together she would attempt to express these sentiments to the man she was in love with.

_Love._

Love?!

'Know any kind of…head-healing charms?' Salazar asked; still several stages ahead of Rowena in the linguistic race.

'Eh,' said Rowena.

'Could just stick my finger in your skull, see what that does.'

'Mm.'

'Or fashion a tourniquet from your knickers.'

'Chupacabra.'

'What?'

'It's a goat-sucking man-beast of South American legend.'

Salazar blinked.

'Believed to kill farm animals by sucking the blood from their bodies and occasionally removing the vital organs,' she continued, dazedly.

'Oh god.'

'Some believe them to be alien in origin due to the reported presence of—'

'Please stop.'

'Please make me.'

Salazar obliged.

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'Goodnight – yes, thank you – good_night!_' Helga fell against her office door, breathing a sigh of relief. She remained still for a while, until she was sure that Richard had left the adjoining common room without further argument, declarations of affection, hyperbolic flattery or sordid come-ons.

_Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three…_

Ok, that was probably long enough. The man may have been persistent, but he had the attention span of a seven year old with a hyperactivity disorder. She took a seat at her desk.

Ah, marking. The simple joys of simple marking; weeks and weeks of mind-numbing essays and baked goods to evaluate. Something about the monotony of the task was oddly enjoyable: to be such a small yet significant aspect of so many lives, as unnoticed and necessary as a heartbeat.

Of course, it was a heartbeat the students could most likely live without comfortably, but who was she to complain?

Well, co-founder and headmistress, technically, but…

Oh, wee. She really wasn't in the mood for this kind of mental debating. Time to check the registers.

It was there, of course, beneath the list of last week's class attendees: the thin scrap of parchment she'd scribbled on, over and over, as if writing it clearly would answer her questions. Predictably, it hadn't. But she stole another peak at it anyway:

_Ro kissed Slytherin on the eyebrow – not a Good Thing._

_Heather is scared of Slytherin – why?! - she's buggered off in a mysterious fashion_

_Who is "Cray" and why does Heather fear him? She says Slytherin killed him…who is he?!_

_Who/what killed all those people then?_

_Was it Godric?_

_Is Godric ok?_

_Do I miss Godric? _

_Is Slytherin really a massive bastard?_

_**Really**__, though?_

_Aaaargrguuuuaaaargh I'm too young for this shit_

Helga reviewed the thoughts a few times, adding a couple of needless doodles around the circumference. She underlined the name "Cray". After a further couple of seconds of contemplation, she also underlined "killed him". And, as she stared vacantly into the middle-distance, she doodled absent-mindedly by Godric's name and made a few vaguely perturbed noises.

'Oh, professor!'

Helga shot to her feet in panic, automatically shoving the paper under her inbox. Once her heart rate had returned to a healthy rate, she winced and addressed the voice outside of her door.

'Yes?'

'Ah…it is I, Richard Ravenclaw.'

'I'm acutely aware.'

'May I come in?'

She mentally braced herself. 'Of course…'

He bounded in the room like a limping, slightly-intoxicated puppy with a fractured rib. 'Ah, professor,' he beamed, approaching her desk with a wide grin pasted upon his face. 'I do apologise for the intrusion, but I have composed thee a sonnet. Permit me to share?'

Helga stared at him in disbelief. He smiled unselfconsciously back.

'Er,' she said, after an embarrassed pause. 'Er…what, really?'

Richard seemed to take this as a "yes", and immediately began: 'She haseth the yellowiest, curliest hair—'

'Love of Christ, no,' she mumbled, sinking into her seat.

'—and it sitteth 'pon her face, which is smiley and fair.

Her skin be-eth soft; a bit freckley and pink:

It suits her quite well, in an unusual way, methinks.

Her ankles be noble, her shoulders be round,

And her voice be the sweetest most musical sound!

And her teeth, oh her teeth, like white little pegs,

And her bottom a nice thing atop her two legs,

Which are nice also, don't get me wrong,

And encased by a skirt, which is, alas, quite long.

And her bosom, by crikey, a most—'

'Please stop,' Helga pleaded.

He obediently did so, grinning sheepishly. 'To be honest, I've been improvising since the third line. I sort of forgot the words.'

'It was…lovely,' she said, with forced politeness.

His grin broadened further. 'Did you like it?'

'It – it wasn't very…sonnet-y,' she pointed out.

'Ah – well – you see – I was attempting to challenge the constraints of the sonnet format. You see?'

'I see…'

He grinned again. This one looked less confident. 'I can – ah – write something better, if you like?'

She quickly shook her head, applying the most falsely enthusiastic expression she could muster. 'No no no no, certainly not on my account. It's just, er…I'm not really a fan of the sonnet, to be honest.'

'No?'

'No.' _Because it's rather difficult to say "you're a nice girl with a wonderful personality and lovely eyes" in poem format_, she thought bitterly. _It makes rhyme schemes quite difficult. _

He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. 'Er…would you prefer thee a lyrical love ballad?'

'Not really,' she said, privately wondering when "thee" had become an acceptable pronoun for the conversation.

'An epic war poem?'

'No thanks.'

'A rap?' he suggested, weakly.

She briefly considered, before shaking her head. 'No, thank you.' _Although that would be possibly the most entertaining three-and-a-half minutes of my life_. 'I think – I think the sonnet would have been sufficient, if anything.'

Richard looked rather wounded at the implication of this statement. 'I can switch to a different literary format, if you prefer…?'

'I – I don't think that'll be…um…necessary,' she said, diplomatically. His shoulders fell. 'I mean, you're a nice boy and everything,' she added hurriedly, 'but, um, the thing is that we haven't seen each other for a very long time and the last time we _did_ see each other I was about ten years old and me and Rowena were beating you with pointy sticks and calling you a bastard.'

He shrugged, evidently seeing no problem with this.

'Er,' she continued, feebly, 'and the thing is, is: you've been away for eight years and have now decided you'd like some kind of – of – romantic entanglement, and that's all very well and good because as I say you're a _lovely _boy, if slightly…er, dazed and confused...but you just don't know me, and I don't want to be in another relationship with someone who doesn't _know_ me, you know?'

'No.'

'Oh.'

'Would it help if I duelled with your former sweetheart?' he asked, struggling to understand the concepts she was introducing.

'Er – _no_, not really. I mean, he is a werewolf and everything.'

'Not a dwarf, is he?'

'No. What? No.'

'Good.'

'Um…' _Please go away now._ 'Um, thank you for the sonnet, and everything.' _I mean, not in an impolite way, or anything; I just have no idea how to end this kind of conversation and your hasty exit would probably make things easier for me. _'It was very…original.'

He smiled; slightly weaker than before, but with enough sincerity to elude Helga's radar of human sensitivity. 'Quite alright, professor.'

'Um…bye-bye?' she suggested.

Richard wavered on the spot for a moment or two, debating whether to continue his attempts further, before reluctantly accepting the hint. 'Bye-bye, professor.'

As the door closed after him, Helga withdrew the list of notes from beneath her inbox to confirm what she'd believed to be there: beside Godric's name, an absent-mindedly doodled love heart. She wrinkled her nose and promptly stabbed it with her wand, burning away the parchment. She sat back down.

She _did_ wonder what Richard's sonnet had said about her bosom.

0000000000000000

Rowena peeked one eye open to survey Salazar's face, and wondered if it was really appropriate to do so. This being her first instance of prolonged open-mouthed kissing (thirty-seven seconds and counting), she wasn't entirely sure of the etiquette. Salazar had his eyes closed, so she did the same. This seemed like the most sensible course of action; seeing his blurred features so close up was giving her a headache.

None of this was real enough to warrant a reaction. Even her usual state of confusion was beyond her ability, reducing her train of thought to words _yum yum yum, tongue tongue tongue._

After another minute or so of both yum and tongue, it occurred to Rowena that a large reason for the continuation of affairs was in removing the need to talk about it afterwards.

After a further few minutes, it occurred to her that she was laid in a small halo of her own blood and very slowly developing lockjaw.

Oh well. This would certainly give them something to talk about later, providing her lips hadn't crumbled off or anything.

_Yum yum yum, tongue tongue tongue. _

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'I _think_,' said Sophia, pointedly dragging her dagger through the now largely mutilated torso of the unfortunate postman, 'we may be in need of a better plan, _darling_.'

'My dear,' Xavier replied calmly, seated a safe distance away in a plush leather armchair, 'the Malfoy family are known for their cunning and strategy. I swear to you, our scheming will pay off.'

'_Au contraire_, dear heart. That would be the notorious expertise of the Slytherin branch of the family.' She lowered the dagger momentarily, pausing to flick a piece of intestine from her velvet sleeve. 'The Malfoy sect are more known for being cowardly, malicious, snivelling and pathetic.'

_Which is rather better than what's said about the Bruntts,_ Xavier thought bitterly, _which is usually along the lines of "mad as a spoon". _

He bit his tongue, and replied, 'Then leave it to me, my sweet, to salvage the family's broken reputation. After all,' he added hintingly, as she jabbed the dagger into the corpse's arm, 'I'd hate our family's reputation to have an ill-effect on _you_, dearest. We wouldn't want all the rich eligible bachelors avoiding you for any reason.' _Like a trail of mutilated newlyweds spread across continental Europe, say._

Sophia blinked, her large brown eyes slightly glazed. She raised a bloodied finger to her jaw and caressed the side of her own face, as if convincing herself of her own eligibility, and left a crimson streak across her skin.

'Of course,' she muttered, abandoning her plaything and taking a seat opposite Xavier, settling her skirts demurely. 'Quite right, my love. We must see this plan through to the end, of course we must.'

'Your faith astounds me, dear angel.'

'So what do we do now, darling?'

'We continue as we are,' said Xavier, sprawling in his seat to better absorb the luxury of power. 'We torment cousin Salazar. We end his ridiculous school. We tear apart the Hogwash Four, spread as much misery as possible, encourage this mudblood killing spree and make a general nuisance of ourselves, as ever, my love.'

'And to what ends, my sweet?'

'Until Salazar accepts his Slytherin bloodline.' His lips twisted into a very Malfoy grin. 'Until, my dear heart, his cowardice floods his soul and he finally enacts Cray's prophecy, instead of wasting another year of everyone's time by avoiding his fate.'

'Cray was a good man,' said Sophia, thoughtfully. 'Harsh but fair. I don't see much of his blood in Salazar.'

'That's because Cray was a cold-blooded, power-hungry killer who cared only for the destruction of mudblood scum. Salazar is a soap-dodging bastard with a big nose.'

Sophia nodded. 'He seems an unworthy heir to Cray's good work. I wish he'd trusted me instead.'

'I'm sure Cray would feel the same way, my love. But we must make the best of his mistake if we're ever to see his dreams completed.'

She sighed wistfully. 'All in good time, of course. What's Salazar thinking now?'

Xavier glanced at the crystal ball by his feet, and reported, '"Yum yum yum, tongue tongue tongue", apparently.' He kicked the ball under a chair. 'His mind's like a fortress.'

'We'll crack him eventually, dear,' she replied, soothingly. 'Once our spy reports back to us. We'll see Cray's work completed soon, my darling.'

'Of course, dear angel.'

Sophia sighed as she stood up, soothing her crumpled skirts and gliding towards her private chamber. As the door shut gently after her, she said, 'I fucking hate you, do you know that?'

'Yes, my dear,' said Xavier wearily, drinking deeply from his goblet. Quietly, he added, 'And as soon as you've given Salazar an heir, I suspect that stabbing your eyes out with a fork will do _wonders_ for my headache.' He caught the dead, round eyes of the postman and raised his glass to him. 'Chin chin.'


	13. Chapter 13: Tart

**Chapter Thirteen: Tart**

Salazar was eight years old when he first kissed a girl. His father later informed him – as Salazar shook with the trauma of the event – that this was a standard rite of passage experienced by all young men, and he would look back on the moment with fond memories.

However, the experience was vastly devalued by the fact that the kissee was a certain Ms Sophia Bruntt, who had pursued him ruthlessly through their grandfather's castle for two days with pursed lips and a wand. During this time, Salazar had eaten nothing more than a slightly rotten apple he'd found in the upper-limbs of a tree in which he'd concealed himself.

After forty-four hours of ceaseless pursuit, he finally surrendered himself to his fate, crawled out from under a bramble bush and waited for Sophia to find him. She materialised about twenty minutes later, grabbed him by the shirt collar and threatened to scrape his lungs out through his bellybutton if he didn't kiss her. Extra points if he could produce an heir in the process, though neither of them were sure of what this meant.

It lasted precisely five seconds. Sophia cried immediately afterwards and bludgeoned him with a nearby branch.

At the age of eleven, during his second night at school – when friend-making was still a suggestion he was almost willing to follow – he'd cautiously sat with a group of children in the common room. People were talking. A game of some kind had taken off in the corner.

Suddenly and without warning, he found himself confronted by the words, 'Slytherin – kiss Rowena.'

Salazar snapped to attention. 'What?!'

'Kiss Rowena,' the voice repeated, commandingly. It came from a vacant-looking brunette girl to his left.

Salazar's lip trembled. He managed to plead, '_Why?_'

'It's the rules,' the girl said. 'Or you'll ruin the game!'

Ruin the game? He didn't want to ruin the game. Oh dear god, what if he ruined the game?!

_Then I shall shatter their pathetic souls with a crushing blend of sarcasm and black magic, naturally. But…_

Salazar lowered his voice. His conversation with the brunette girl had managed to progress largely unheard by the other children, and he intended to maintain this order.

'Who's Rowena?' he asked.

'She's got a blue dress on,' the girl replied, not making any attempt to lower her tone.

He glanced around the circle. There were two or three blue dresses. One red-haired girl, one girl with a plait, and…

Oh dear.

'Not…_that one?_' he asked, discreetly pointing to the blue-eyed idiot opposite him.

The girl nodded. 'Yep. That one. Kiss her.'

Not her. Not Ravenclaw. Not the only person in the entire school he'd been warned against; not the only person he'd thrown a potato at not twenty-four hours earlier. Not _her!_ Why?

He shuffled backwards slightly. 'Don't want to…' he mumbled, weakly.

Rowena, noticing the movement, glanced at him. For a moment or so her expression was open and friendly; her mouth a broad smile, her eyes wide. Perhaps she'd forgotten! She must have forgotten; she was a girl. Girls are forgiving and stupid. He could re-introduce himself, strike up a non-offensive topic of discussion, she wouldn't remember a thing! It could work! It could _work!_

Rowena threw a potato at him, dashing his dreams somewhat.

'Ouch,' said Salazar. She returned to a more pressing conversation.

The brunette girl looked at him scathingly. 'You've ruined the game,' she said.

'It wasn't my fault!' he yelped, defensively. 'She hit me with a tuber!'

She sighed. 'Oh well.' And she grabbed his collar, yanked him forcefully towards her, and kissed him briefly before pushing him back into his seat.

Salazar stared at her.

She, too, returned to a more pressing conversation.

Salazar clambered to his feet, and parted the circle with a solitary mutter of, 'Bugger this for a lark.' He left the common room. He exited the corridor. And, after checking over his shoulders, ran down the staircase, two steps at a time, and escaped into the forest, having decided that society just wasn't worth it.

Now he was nineteen. He kissed Rowena's forehead, felt her body unwind from his like string, and watched her walk dazedly to the end of the corridor.

His face dropped. His fists clenched. Salazar Slytherin ran for his life.

0000000000000000000

It was an hour or so later that Rowena staggered dazedly back to her chamber. Though her expression was frozen impassively, her insides were flooded with a ridiculous grin. She felt lighter than air. She felt like a huge weight had been lifted. She felt weak at the knees. She felt – well, a bit headachy and slightly confused, but for the moment she was entirely unable to question the day's events. Whenever she attempted conscious thought her brain was completely sidelined with a golden rush of happiness.

She allowed herself the joy of relaying little sights and sounds from her time with Salazar – his green eyes creased with an unguarded smile, the feel of his hand travelling up her arm and resting on her shoulder, the short breathy laugh he exhaled as their lips parted. Even the feel of the cold stone surrounding them was providing a pleasant mental connection.

Halfway up the stairs, realising she'd been stood there for a good few minutes, lost in thought, she giggled. She hadn't wanted to let go. Not ever. Food could bugger itself. She didn't need human company. She could sleep on the floor. Hell, she could multitask and sleepkiss.

In the pauses in-between, they'd done nothing but breathe. It'd taken them a good fifteen minutes to clamber to their feet, the journey interrupted continually by yet more kissing. And lip nibbling. Can't forget the lip nibbling. Or the rather interesting trick with the ear.

Her mind had never felt so vacant. It was a terrific feeling: the self-doubting, nagging mental track finally silenced as life delivered just what she wanted, even if she wasn't sure she'd wanted it. She had to try and hold on to these memories. Dark days would depend on them.

'_I don't know how to ask without sounding overly-formal,'_ she'd said, as they lay side-by-side, _'but do you think we could go back to the kissing for a bit?'_

He'd smiled. _'If it'll shut you up.'_

She giggled again at the memory. Must remember everything. Must remember this feeling.

They hadn't discussed anything…no, of course, they didn't need to. They didn't need words. Who needed words? Stupid little letter things…all nouns and verbs and nasty little adjectives, just waiting to mess things up. They didn't need to talk. Nothing was as important as that hour and a half – nothing felt like that, nothing shook her quite so much. Death and werewolves and students and brothers are all – no, don't think about them. It doesn't matter. Be happy, be happy. You're allowed to be happy. You're allowed to be carefree, for once…

'_What do we do now?'_ she'd asked, slightly incoherently as they stood by the door.

'_This seems pretty good,'_ he'd replied.

'_But what do we – I mean, what happens now?'_

'_We keep kissing,'_ he'd said. Simple as that. And so they did.

Yep – simple. It's not fair, having to over-complicate things as they did. Never getting things the easy way, all your dreams with so many obstacles. What's wrong, once in a while, with making it _easy?_

And they'd stood there, a good long while, arms resting around each other, her face pressed into his chest and his chin resting on her forehead. And he kissed the top of her head, softly, seeming to savour this final contact, tightening his embrace.

And now…

Rowena giggled again, dragging herself ever-closer to Ravenclaw tower. _It's easy now. It's me and Salazar together, and now we can sort everything out because we don't need to worry about this anymore._

She smiled as she reached the door of her chamber. _My inner-narrative actually agrees with how I'm feeling. This has to be a good sign._

As she entered her chamber, she was met by the already all-too-familiar sight of Richard in her comfy chair, glaring at her accusingly with Clarence in his lap. His injured ankle rested on a nearby spell book.

Rowena waved.

'Don't try talking your way out of this one, young lady,' Richard replied curtly, though years of good breeding automatically returned a polite wave. 'Just where have you been all night?'

'Nowhere,' Rowena heard herself say, in a deliriously carefree voice that didn't sound much like her usual tone. 'I mean, I've just been, you know, milling around. None of your business really.'

'"Milling"?'

'Milling,' she repeated, confidently. 'Generally. You know how much I love a good…you know. Mill.'

Richard's eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'You smell of sex.'

'No I don't,' she snapped back, returning to her senses slightly. 'I just smell happy.'

'Why is your back all dirty?'

'I fell.'

'Directly onto your back?'

'Yes. Look,' she parted her hair to show the bloody bump at the back of her skull. 'Concussion and everything.'

Clarence clucked accusingly.

'It's _true!_' she insisted.

Clarence clucked again.

'I did! I fell on my back and hit my head!'

'Rowena,' said Richard, 'need I point out that you're debating this point with a chicken?'

Rowena glared. Her good mood was dissolving at great speed. 'There you go then,' she said. 'Proof of my unfit state of mind. Now bugger off.'

'You have post-coital hair,' he pointed out.

'I do _not—_' She caught sight of her reflection, and hurriedly patted her hair down. 'Well, that's as maybe. But my current hair style was not preceded by any amount of…_coitus_. I mean,' she continued, barging out of his accusatory gaze to open the window and allow in a sharp winter breeze, 'do you have any idea how many layers of skirt and knickers I'm wearing? There's buttons and belts and ribbons and buckles and all sorts. It's _winter._ In _Scotland_. I haven't seen my bare legs for three months, and I'm sewn in to my own pants.'

Something about her ceaseless underwear-orientated babble seemed to have sunk in, or at least bored him into submission. 'Fair enough,' he said, his voice returned to his more usual apathetically soft tone. 'Then embrace me as a brother and we'll say no more about it.'

'Er…ok.'

'Don't squash Clarence.'

'Oversized dirty pigeon,' Rowena muttered, glaring at the poultry with hatred. 'Every time I wake up in the night it's sat there, watching me sleep. It's a thing of evil.'

'He's charming company!'

'He's two roast potatoes and a bag of peas short of Sunday lunch.'

'Beast. Ah.' In a dramatic fashion, he allowed his brow to fall. Rowena sensed a performance of some kind coming along, and realised that nothing short of pursuing him with a harpoon would spare her. And one does get tired of harpooning, after a while. She accepted the majority vote and took a seat at his feet.

'Yes?' she prompted.

'I'm horribly in love,' he confided.

'No you're not.'

'I sort-of am.'

'Ok.'

'Yet she will not offer me the time of day.'

Rowena sighed. 'Perhaps because saying "what time is it" is your way of distracting them long enough for you to drop your britches and present it like a root vegetable.'

Richard looked vaguely affronted. 'I seldom have to invoke a sneak attack to get a woman into bed with me, thank you very much.'

'I didn't suggest it. Just that you have a habit of presenting your goods like a man at a farmer's market.'

Richard considered the statement, and nodded fairly. 'True. But women find me attractive, Ro! I'm not the most handsome of men, true – or the strongest or bravest or most chivalrous—'

'Or smartest,' Rowena offered.

'—or the most daring or athletic—'

'Or muscular.'

'—yes, thank you, I wasn't really looking for suggestions—'

'And you have the most sporadic growth of facial hair of any man I've known.'

'You're a tart and a deviant and I hate you,' Richard informed her, folding his arms.

'Sorry. Well, I wouldn't worry about your glaring inadequacies too much; Helga's not a superficial person.'

'I'm not talking about Helga,' said Richard, in what he clearly imagined was a convincing tone.

Rowena sighed, prodding his injured ankle. 'Of course you are, you've been bouncing around after her since you got here. It's freaking _embarrassing_.' She narrowed her eyes, suddenly taken by an idea, and demanded, 'Did you love Prunella?'

'Pru?'

'Yes. I mean, I know you married her—'

'For two months,' he muttered, bitterly.

'—but did you _love_ her?'

Richard didn't reply for a while, but scratched the back of his head uncomfortably. Eventually he lifted Clarence to eye level and said, 'It is best that you don't hear this, old boy,' and allowed him to flap into Rowena's adjoining office.

Rowena disguised her disgust, and persisted, 'Did you?'

Richard never usually looked self-conscious. He never usually looked _grown-up._ It was unnerving. 'Darling, I worship every woman I come across. Every one.' He shuffled in his seat a while, looking shame-faced. 'Often resulting in a lewd sex act and a near-death experience, true, but that's beside the point. Ah. But as soon as Pru came along—' He shuffled uncomfortably again. 'I loved her very much. Yes.'

Rowena swallowed, feeling suddenly rather awkward. 'What happened to her?'

He shrugged. 'I was with her a year, married two months and – ah.' He shrugged again, as if the gesture would speak for him. 'She was a very good actress, I suppose.'

'Didn't she—?'

'No_._ She didn't – apparently return the feelings. But she was – ah. She was rather fond of my inheritance, as it turns out.' He sighed, melting back into a more comfortable position in his chair, and added, 'And a rather dashing stable boy named Lorenzo.'

Rowena wrinkled her nose. 'Lorenzo?'

'Don't let the name fool you; he had style.'

'I'm sure.'

He shrugged again. It seemed that shrugging played a large part in the narration of events. 'It's such a horribly confused matter, love. It's never just one thought or feeling, you know – it's a little bit of all of them, all at once. All the good ones and all the bad ones. And I'm not at all sure I want them back.'

'That's sad,' said Rowena, short of anything articulate to add to the discussion. The world of heartache was too far away from her present state for her to even try to sympathise.

'Yes. Well. It happens. Doesn't it?' He shook his head, covering his eyes with his hands. 'For the love of god, my dear, please cover that love bite. I can't go on pretending not to notice it.'

Rowena hurriedly did so, a blush flashing into her cheeks. 'Eh,' she stammered, covering her neck with her hair. 'Um – it's not what you – it's not how it—'

'Of course not. But I was actually referring to the one on your chin.' He cocked an eyebrow. 'Bad aim, that Slytherin boy.'

Rowena squealed. 'He – I – we never—'

'Whatever. At least he hit the right girl.'

'Get out,' she squeaked, feebly.

'If he gets you pregnant I'll chop his cock off.'

'_Out!_'

'Tart.'

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'Bless you,' said Anatole.

Helga looked up. 'Pardon?'

'Bless you?' he repeated, less certainly this time. By means of explanation, he added, 'You sneezed, rather loudly, so I said bless you. I think it's the etiquette.'

Helga frowned. She hadn't sneezed _that_ loudly. 'Are you allowed to say that?'

'What, etiquette?'

'_Bless you._ I mean, what with you being all…vampyric, and all.'

'Er,' said Anatole, short of anything more substantial.

'Are your lips burning?'

He shrugged. 'They're a bit chapped.'

'Does your oesophagus stream with hot, sticky blood?'

'Should it?'

Helga regarded him suspiciously for a moment. 'Are you going to start spitting black bile in my eye-holes?'

'It's just etiquette!' he insisted, recoiling slightly at the thought. 'I was being polite! And – and I'm only a _bit_ vampyric, we've been through this.'

'Yes, yes,' she said, waving her hand as if this was all inconsequential. 'I'm just still in the process of trying to figure out which bats. _Bits_,' she corrected herself, hurriedly.

Anatole looked reproachful.

'Slip of the tongue,' she mumbled.

'Any particular reason you've asked me here?' he asked, in a vaguely-diplomatic attempt to usher the conversation forwards.

They were in a dungeon classroom; just one of many they had deemed unsuitable for use as a teaching environment for reasons of mould. A steady drip of warm water between them promised to add to this problem. Helga pulled her cape more tightly around her shoulders.

'I need your help,' she said, 'with…something. If that's ok.'

He shrugged. 'Probably.'

'It will involve lying, espionage, duplicity and possible death.'

'Oh dear.'

'Well…probably not death.'

'Ok.'

'But definitely the first three.'

'Excellent.'

'Except espionage.'

'Right.'

'Maybe.'

'Elaborate?'

'I think Salazar's a bastard.' Her hands flew guiltily to her mouth immediately after she'd spoken.

Anatole just nodded. 'Go on.'

She lowered her hands, carefully. 'I mean…in a really bad way.'

He nodded again. 'As opposed to the really annoying way?'

'Well…yes.'

'As opposed to a "yet another really annoying smarmy titwrinkle who all the nice girls fall for even though there are perfectly nice and sincere people just hanging around, doing their best, slipping under the radar just because they're under five and a half foot tall" kind of way?'

'Er…yes.' She wrinkled her nose. '"Titwrinkle"?'

'I have issues. Continue.'

'I've done a bad thing.'

'Er…continue?' he prompted again, cautiously. He hadn't known Helga for very long, but was already of the opinion that a sinful confession from a Hufflepuff could range anywhere between "I accidentally lost your wand" to "I accidentally killed a man". She just had that air about her.

Helga dithered for a while. She was an expert ditherer. 'The thing is,' she said, biting her lip, 'the thing is, I _really_ think that he might be a very, very bad man. You see? I mean not just your average philandering knob-wart, I mean a _really _bad man. You see?'

'I…not really,' Anatole confessed. 'You're going to have to explain why.'

And so, she did.

She didn't quite mean to – she intended to give away snippets of information, talk them through, let him persuade her she was over-reacting and pretend the whole thing never happened. But instead she opened her mouth and out the whole thing came, in a positive tsunami of too-much-information.

She told him of Heather, and her conviction that he – or perhaps Malfoy – was going to kill her; about Heather's spying; her insistence that Salazar had been the death of the last child they discovered; that he had killed the other students; that Salazar had murdered his grandfather – that he had murdered Cray Slytherin as he slept, all those years ago…

She descended into silence. Anatole made a kind of "bibble" noise.

Something in the dungeon went _drip._

At a loss for anything else to say, Anatole offered another "bibble".

'Is that all you have to say?!' Helga demanded.

'Er…'

'None of that stuff powerful enough to evoke a response in your soul, you vampyric nipple?!'

'Er—'

'We're talking about a probable murderer potentially having it off with my best friend, you melon!'

'Er…oh dear?' Before she had chance to explode, he hurriedly added, 'You're right – if you're right, I mean – we _need_ a plan of action. Need to discover the truth. Need to ascertain Heather's whereabouts. Need to run a lot of tests, ask a lot of questions, consider a lot of facts and keep all our cards very close to our chests—'

'I've told Rowena.'

'—or, that.' He frowned. 'What did you go and tell her for?'

She dithered again, flapping her hands around in a feeble attempt to escape the situation via the power of flight. 'I don't – I mean, I didn't _mean _to! I just had all this information and no one to talk to, and—'

'Well, what did she say?'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing?'

'Yet.' She scratched the back of her head sheepishly. 'I sort of…had it all written down in convenient note form, and…well, I was going to go and tell her earlier but she wasn't in, and I sort of, er, left it in her office.'

'Accidentally?'

'Sort-of.'

'Sort-of?'

'No. Not really.' She sighed and looked at the floor. 'I did a bad, bad thing…'

'And where's Professor Slytherin now?' Anatole asked, panic rising slightly. 'If you're right and he's as dangerous as you think he is, the last thing we need is him seeing that note—'

Helga sighed again. 'That's the thing,' she mumbled, sadly. 'I don't think there's any worry of that.'

'Why not?'

'I saw him in Hogsmeade earlier. I don't think he saw me.' She looked up. 'And he was running for his life.'


	14. Chapter 14: Limpet

**Chapter 14: Limpet**

Rowena blinked.

It was more than a mere moistening of the eyeballs. It was a blink that spoke volumes.

Three notes, crumpled and hastily scribbled, graced her in-tray. All of them confused and upset her. It was now a mere matter of organising them by priority.

Right:

_Dearest Sir/Miss Rowena Ravenclaw,_

_Good afternoon or indeed evening. I write to contact you in regards to a correspondence received from a Mr Salazar Slytherin several weeks ago but inevitably delayed in its delivery by the incompetence of my house elf staff, who have yet to acknowledge my death or indeed the presence of my corpse in the drawing room._

_I am delighted to receive Mr Slytherin's letter, who no doubt fondly remembers me from his youth in the North Country. I would be honoured to accept your offer of a position as resident ghost at your school, beginning as soon as the house elves are kind enough to perform an exorcism. _

_Yours with ever-present sincerity,_

_Mr Wellard Boob._

_(deceased)_

Rowena blinked again. She began to re-read the note, thought better of it, and stared at his name for a few minutes.

She blinked again.

Moving on:

_Dear Ro, Ro-Ro, Rowwy, Rowena, oh Rowena I'm so sorry, I love you Ro I really do, I'm in such a fuss I don't know what to do, oh hang on I haven't formatted the letter properly,_

_Much better don't you think? Oh Ro, dearest lovely Ro, I'm so sorry, I really am. But I can't go on not telling you any longer because I think you ought to know, you know? Even if I'm wrong, and lord I hope I'm wrong because you're curiously attached to him much like an emotional limpet, and my mother told me that if you touch a limpet with your bare hands you'll grow hair on your palms._

_I just don't want to risk it, Rowena, I don't!_

_It's Salazar you see? I mean of course you see, you see a lot of him. Not that I'm implying anything slanderous about your reputation, I wouldn't do that, I'm sure you're not a whore. I mean there has been talk of course, but I turn a blind ear to that kind of gossip, and of course I'm in no position to judge. Who is? Sexuality is a very broad church, Rowena! I wouldn't judge you! I mean, the things I've done, Ro, the things I've done. I've never known such an interesting and unholy use of vegetables—_

Rowena flicked a few pages ahead.

_--but only in casserole, Rowena, only in casserole. And gravy stains the skin, and is difficult to remove from undergarments—_

She skimmed a few paragraphs further down, shaking her head as vigorously as possible.

_But Rowena – oh dear, I just re-read that, I do apologise – but this is more important than any amount of inter-genital contact. What I'm trying to say, Rowena, is that Slytherin is – that is, I don't think he is a good man. Indeed, I rather hold the opposite belief! What I'm trying to say is he may be, oh, rather evil!_

_Oh dear, please forgive me. But Rowena, please believe me, I wouldn't lie about any of this. I wouldn't. This is what I believe to be true._

_Heather was a spy, Ro. A nasty little bastard of a spy. She was spying for a Malfoy man – was it Malfoy? It could have been Mallory, or maybe Valerie…no, Valerie is the lady who sells me lettuce on a Tuesday, yes, it was certainly Malfoy. He wanted to know about all of us, certainly you and Slytherin. And a young boy – the young boy who was found dead and chewed by the forest! He was her cousin._

_Oh, does this make any sense, Rowena? I've tried to re-read it, but all I can detect is a pornographic tangent about radishes._

_But, yes, yes, Heather. She was terrified when I saw her, Ro; she thought Slytherin was going to kill her. Or Malfoy. She was a bit unclear on that really. All she said was that Slytherin had killed, or had been responsible for the deaths, because of someone called Cray. Was it Cray? Yes, I'm fairly certain it was Cray, because it made me think of Crayfish._

_Cray is…oh, who's Cray? Yes – Cray was his grandfather, Heather told me. Slytherin's grandfather. He raised Slytherin for years because he…oh, what was it? Slytherin volunteered himself, I think. He helped him. And there was a curse, and, oh, I don't know, the important part is that Slytherin killed Cray. He did! At least, Heather told me he did, and she seemed convinced. He killed Cray as he slept._

_Oh, Rowena, I don't know what to do. I think he's out to destroy us. I think he's out to destroy all of us. I think he's somehow killing the mixed-blood students and I think he's planning to kill more and more people, and I don't know where he's run away to but he's run away from the castle._

_How are you anyway?_

_Love_

_Helga._

Rowena smoothed out the creases in the letter and folded it neatly in half. She swallowed, and thought it was odd how significant her every move suddenly felt. Everything felt weighted and uncomfortable.

She reached into her pocket, and retrieved Heather's destroyed note she'd stolen from Salazar's pocket. Correctly assembled, and joined at the tears, it read _Salazar Slytherin is going to kill me._

She tore it again.

She frowned.

Right.

Last letter.

_I have to go. I'm sorry._

_-- SS_

Go. I have to go. Wonderful. Just what exactly did that mean?

I have to go home? I have to go away? I have to stay away?

I'm sorry. _He's_ sorry? He'd gone away, so soon after the kisses they'd shared, and _he_ was sorry?

She looked at the back of the note:

_And would it be inappropriate to say you have fantastic knockers?_

She glanced down, and blinked again.

Everything hurt.

0000000000000000000000

Richard looked up. His rubber duck squeaked.

'Eh, do pardon me—'

Helga closed the door behind her. 'Have you seen Rowena?'

He lowered his loofah. 'She's certainly not in here.'

'Are you sure?'

He spared the length of the bathroom a quick look. 'Er, yes, Helga. I'm fairly sure her presence wouldn't have gone unnoticed.'

Helga stared vacantly at his left knee, a traumatised expression painted across her face. It stirred every ounce of Richard's manliness to see her in such distress. Unfortunately, his ability to offer a comforting shoulder was somewhat hindered by the ever-thinning layer of soap suds floating atop his bath water. He attempted to convey concern with an empathetic eyebrow move.

'Dear Helga, you appear in a state of distress. Is there nothing I can, ah-ha, do for you?' He scowled at himself afterwards. He was sure he hadn't intended for the euphemistic "ah-ha" to be there; it was a subconscious force of habit. Helga deserved more than a filthy innuendo delivered by a pervert in a bathtub.

Fortunately, his faux-pas appeared to have gone largely unnoticed. 'Oh, I've done something terrible. Something so terrible…'

'What is it?' he asked, squeaking as he sat up.

'I should have just kept it to myself!'

'My dear Helga, whatever it is I insist you should tell me.'

'I can't – I shouldn't. Oh god, what if she doesn't come back?'

'Who?' The water was getting rather cold now.

'I can't – oh god! What if she went after him, and he's dangerous?'

'Who's dangerous? And, ah, do you think you could hand me that towel?'

'Anatole's looking, but he can't even smell her around the castle—'

'I beg your pardon?'

'—of course he can't smell everything, his powers aren't that strong, but—'

'Helga, please dear – if needs be, I will chuck the duckie at you. _Please _tell me what's going on?'

Helga appeared to suddenly snap to realisation. Her expression registered a few startling facts about her surroundings, and immediately discarded the majority of them for reasons of confusion.

'Oh, Richard – I'm so sorry, it's all my fault! I told Rowena that Slytherin could be – well, he _may be _– dangerous, and he's run away and now I don't know where Ro is! She's not in her room! What if she went _after him?_'

Richard slapped his hand against the side of the bath. 'Helga dear, avert your young eyes! I'm thoroughly incensed!'

Helga obediently did as told, as Richard launched himself from the bath, spattering water everywhere and hoisting a towel in it's appropriate place.

'My sister!' he raged, in as dramatic a manner as a man with an incredibly mellow disposition could. 'I will not allow her to go harmed! I cannot stand idly by as my own flesh and blood faces peril from this – this corrupting, evil, dangerous, depraved—'

And he stopped there, because Helga's mouth was suddenly attached to his and it was all rather moist and lovely, although he couldn't seem to close his eyes.

He felt a very peculiar bubbling in his midriff.

After an enjoyable ten seconds or so, she wrenched herself away and let go of his shoulder, hand flying to her mouth. 'Oh god,' she squeaked, taking half a step back.

'Er,' said Richard, doing the same.

'Oh god.'

'Er.'

'Oh god. Oh dear.' She released a brief high-pitched squeal and averted her eyes. 'Oh dear god, I'm so sorry!'

'Er…' said Richard, still rather dazed and confused. 'That's quite alright. It was rather pleasant.'

'No, no, no!' she squeaked. 'Not pleasant! Not good! – well, I mean – sorry,' she added, 'I just mean – oh no! I'm sorry, I seem to be doing that increasingly nowadays—'

'Doing – pardon?' said Richard. 'You've never done that before, I'm sure I'd have remembered it—'

'No, I mean – oh god! It's whenever I feel tense or nervous, I seem to be dealing with it with either sex or warm desserts…oh god! I'm sorry.' She fiddled for the door knob, backing further out of the room. 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'I'll just go and – er – go. I need a pie.' She looked him briefly up and down. 'I'm sure I need a big, hot pastry.'

The door slammed after her.

Richard blinked.

0000000000000000000000

'I smell pastry,' said Anatole, some time later.

Helga coughed. 'No you don't.'

His nostrils flared. He sniffed sharply three times. 'Yes I do,' he insisted. 'Definitely some kind of apple crumble—'

'Nope!'

'—tinged with bath bubbles, panic, and sexual frustration.'

'No you don't!' she squeaked, with increasing desperation. 'Stop procrastinating! Track Rowena!' She pushed his face against the nearest wall, grip very firmly around his neck. '_Sniff!_'

He wriggled free. 'Dammit, woman, she's not here.' He pulled his cape tightly around his shoulders, attempting to recover from the indignity of the scene. 'Anyway, even if she _was_ still on the castle grounds, why would she be hiding near an overgrown potting shed? Which, by the way, I'm fairly sure constitutes a health hazard.'

Helga's nose wrinkled. 'Great big sodding monster going around killing everybody, and you're worried about a potting shed?'

'Well, it's _manky._' He sniffed again. 'Eugh. Anyway, what monster? I thought you said Slytherin was killing people?'

'I didn't say that...'

'Yes you bloody did.'

'Not – not _definitely_, I didn't. It's just, er, the information I've got to go on.'

'The information you conveniently dumped on Rowena without warning?'

'Don't judge me, Vampy,' she warned, prodding his chest with her wand. 'I'm not the only one being selective with the truth around here.'

'Ouch. Well, maybe it's better to keep things to yourself sometimes, that's all I'm saying!'

'And maybe sometimes it's better to know!'

'Know what? Some semi-coherent half-truth you heard from a youth with a stick up her bum?!'

'Up her what?' said Richard.

'Argh!' said Helga. 'Where did you come from?'

'The potting shed.' He brushed some soil from his tunic. 'It's very dirty in there; you should think about giving it a once-over.'

'Why on earth were you in the potting shed?'

'I think Clarence is nesting. He keeps cavorting around in there with a bunch of roosters I'm not sure I approve of.'

'Oh.'

A short, uncomfortable silence followed.

Richard said, 'Not really; I was looking for my sister. Clarence isn't that sort of chicken.'

'I would never question the virtue of your poultry,' said Anatole, solemnly.

Helga coughed. 'Lovely. Made any progress, Richard?'

'You would know.'

'I _meant_ with Rowena!'

'Oh. Right. No.'

'Excellent.' She took a deep breath. 'Right.' She reviewed her troops. Her troops grinned back, with all the enthusiasm of two rather strange people who weren't entirely aware of the situation they'd gotten themselves into. Time to step it up. Time to whip out the big guns. Time to kick into Action Gear:

'Right! Time's up, you smelly little men! Now is the moment to get Serious. No more farting around. No more farting at all, if you can help it – this is serious business! Every second you spend breaking wind is one second you spend not puzzling Rowena's whereabouts, and in that space of time she could be getting eaten by a great big fucking _bear!_ Got that?!'

Richard raised his hand. 'While entertaining a Flemmish Princess last July, I was taught an age-old method of retaining gas for up to eighteen hours at a time—'

'_Not good enough!_' She whipped his ear with her wand, and raged on: 'If Ro's gone running after – after that _Slytherbitch_, we need to know what kind of a threat he provides to her! And where he is! And – and why he is! And what he's done! And – stuff like that! _Are you listening to me, Anatole Amery?!_'

'Yes miss!'

'_But are you HEARING me, Anatole Amery?!_'

'YES MISS!'

'GOOD! Now – set to it, immediately!'

He immediately set to it. Seven seconds or so later he returned to where he'd been standing, hand raised hesitantly. 'Er,' he began, 'what exactly am I setting to—?'

'DO IT!'

'Right!' He made off hastily in the direction of the castle. Helga wheeled around to face Richard.

'Well?!' she demanded.

Richard coughed. 'Who's taking care of the, ah, running of the school, if you don't mind me asking?'

'Godric can do that!'

'On his own?'

'Bloody _yes!_'

'You're, ah, still shouting—'

'Am I?!'

'A little, yes.'

'Very sorry! Give me a bloody second!' She exhaled a few times, finding the calm, chocolate-flavoured place in her mind. 'Right.'

'Better?'

'Yes.'

'Lovely.' He brushed a little more dirt off his tunic. 'Do you really think Slytherin to be that dangerous?'

Helga shrugged. 'I don't know. But it doesn't really matter what I think, does it? The only one of us in any potential immediate danger is Rowena, and the swing of my opinion isn't going to change that—'

'I just mean,' he interrupted, with a short, embarrassed cough, 'I mean – I mean, I wouldn't, er, _approve _of the situation at all, but facts are facts and I'm in no position to judge, and...well, are we certain that the situation is how we believe? Are we positive they haven't just absconded for a bit of...er...' His nose wrinkled in disgust. 'You know. How's-your-father.'

Helga's brain vomited slightly.

'And in any case,' he hurried on, 'perhaps I'm being simplistic, but if he's been exposed as a threat and a murderer and has accordingly _run away_, does that slightly neutralise his level of evil?'

Helga shrugged. 'Could be a standard psychopath habit. That's not what's important! The important part is that, knowingly or not, Rowena may have put herself in very serious danger by following him! And as much as I trust and respect her decisions, she is, when all's said and done, an utter tit sometimes, and I'd hate for her to get cut open like a – a haddock!'

Richard nodded. 'There is that.'

'So let's go!'

'Yes!'

'Let's track her down!'

'Indeed!'

'Let's take weapons!'

'Big ones!'

'Let's – let's stab stuff up!'

'Ok!'

'VIOLENTLY!'

'Er.'

'With _knives!_'

'Scaring me a bit now—'

'Great big bloody bastard _knives!_'

'Helga—'

'Great big metal—!'

Rather than continue her sentence, she chose instead to launch herself, yet again, at Richard's mouth, rather painfully clashing teeth. He managed to close his eyes this time, and held on to her as tightly as he dared for a few lovely, wet, wiggly seconds.

'...knives,' she muttered, as their lips parted with a soft _tick_. 'Oh dear.'

'Yes.'

'I did it again, didn't I?'

'Yes.'

'Oh dear.'

'Mm. Not really. Helga—'

A soft voice, perched comfortably atop the potting shed, interrupted the exchange.

It said, 'Drop your wand this instant, or I kill you both.'

It wasn't a voice to be trifled with. Helga dropped her wand.

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Anatole continued to dash towards the castle entrance: vampyric senses temporarily abandoned, and fuelled purely by a mind-numbing adrenaline rush. Being shouted at by a five-foot blonde cookery teacher will do that to you.

No students crossed his path; the only other figures around at this time of night were that of a slender man and woman by the staircase. He walked straight past them.

A few seconds later, his confused brain caught up with him. He turned back.

'Er, excuse me,' he said, politely.

The male figure – blonde, and finely dressed – raised an eyebrow. 'Yes?'

'Er...I'm afraid I must ask you to explain your presence at this time. If that's alright.'

The man smiled. 'Of course! Sophia?'

Anatole felt a sudden dull, weighted pain against the back of his skull. The world filled quickly with black, and his body fell.

Xavier Malfoy observed his companion with a look of distaste. 'My dear, a cosh?'

'And why ever not?' Sophia demanded.

'Hm.' He pointed his wand at Anatole's back. 'What do you think – quick death?'

'Oh, no, no. He looks rather fertile.'

Xavier sighed. 'Sophia, darling, you can't attempt sex with every hostage we take.'

'Mean.'

'Just get him tied up, would you?' He glanced around the entrance hall. It was as silent as he had anticipated. 'With the vampire and the werewolf down, I can't foresee much resistance from elsewhere in the castle.'

Sophia's white smile flashed in the darkness. 'Wonderful. Should we beat the mutt? Soften him up for our William?'

'No, darling; that would be cheating. Salazar needs to kill him without our aid.'

'Unfair—'

'Shush. Get him moved. We'll let Salazar take care of the rest.'


	15. Chapter 15: Meanwhile

**Chapter 15: Meanwhile**

Meanwhile, Rowena attempted a surreptitious wee.

Nature, she thought, did not agree with her. There was nothing more likely to bite her, scratch her, or bring her out in a rash. Something about the crisp winter air made her wheeze.

And all the _midges._ Tiny, floaty little midges. It was _winter_, for Christ's sake. Don't they ever hibernate?

She grabbed a bramble bush for balance. Dammit dammit dammit. If it wasn't bad enough having to answer nature's call in the middle of a wood, she was fairly sure she was being stared at by a deer.

'Sexual deviant,' she muttered, hoisting up her thermals. She kicked a layer of fresh snow over the evidence, and resolved never to speak of this moment again. At least she was fairly sure the deer wouldn't mention it.

Ok. Time to think. Think think think –

'Excuse me?'

'_Pervert deer!_' She spun around desperately, leaping behind the aforeused bramble bush and whipping her wand out of her vest. 'I didn't! I mean – agh!'

Stood a few feet away, and increasingly confused, stood a thin, silvery whisper of a man. His legs appeared to taper off into a blur. He was – yep, he was definitely floating. And kind of dead-looking. Yep, definitely a ghost. Rowena stared.

'Are you quite alright?'

'Bloody ghost!' said Rowena, pointing her wand accusingly. 'Bloody ghosty thing!'

The ghost sniffed. Could ghosts sniff? This one did. 'I _am_ temporarily separated from my mortal frame, yes. But I really think you could have broached the subject a little more kindly.'

Rowena lowered her wand slightly. 'Er. Sorry?'

'And so you should be.' He sniffed again. Yep, ghosts definitely can sniff.

'You _are_ dead, though?'

'Well, yes,' he said, tetchily. 'Slightly, yes.'

'_Slightly?_'

'Well, less dead than most.'

Rowena considered his point. Slowly, she emerged from behind the bush. 'And you're not dangerous?'

'Dangerous? I doubt it. Well, maybe once.'

'Once?'

'I tried it once. In my youth. An entire day of bed-hopping and risky living.'

Rowena stared. 'Really? An entire day?'

'Almost.'

'How did that work out for you?'

He shook his head remorsefully. 'I went blind for three days.'

Rowena coughed. Time to start again, at a more logical place:

'Are you Mr Boob, by any chance?'

Well, that failed spectacularly.

'That is I,' said the ghost. 'Though I prefer to go by Mr Wellard.'

'Obviously,' said Rowena.

'What do you mean, "obviously"?'

_Don't reply to that,_ Rowena thought, determinedly. _I'm not going to spend the rest of my evening explaining anatomical slang to a member of the undead._

Instead she said, 'Don't go behind that bramble bush. I believe you contacted the school recently about, er...' What was it? The gist had been forgotten slightly following the revelations in the other two letters. 'You know Salazar, don't you?'

'Oh, yes,' he said. 'Young Master William, as the family knew him.'

Rowena frowned. 'Why do they all insist on calling him that?'

'Because Salazar is a silly name,' said Wellard Boob.

'I suppose.'

'I believe he must have received news of my demise from his parents. Seeing as I was such a positive influence in his youth, it was natural for him to immediately invite me to your charming residence.'

Rowena glanced back at the silhouette of the dark, craggy mass of sharp towers and crumbling brickwork. It did have some kind of charm, she supposed, but it was hard to locate precisely.

Rowena pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulder. A cold wind stung the back of her neck. 'What was it you taught him, anyway?'

'Well,' said Wellard, launching into a speech Rowena could only wish she'd heard years ago: 'As a young boy, William suffered from a fairly common childhood fear – that of inadvertent urination when confronted by a new or challenging situation. The fear of this act often manifested in him blushing violently. I thus advised him to cover his face in lady's cosmetics to prevent this redness showing through.'

Rowena's jaw hung open. Her eyes lit up. 'No...no shit?'

Wellard sniffed. 'None. Of course, he was cured of the unusual condition by the age of seven, but—'

'Shush shush shush!' she insisted. 'I don't need to hear that bit. Oh, wow...oh sweet lordy nipplebits...' Then she remembered that Salazar was potentially a run-away murderer, and stopped smiling. She groaned, and kicked a tree root. 'I hate this school! I hate this big stinking piece of – ugh! I hate him! Where is he? I need to rip his smarmy ears off with my – _ugh!_'

'With your what?'

'Where is he?' she demanded, brandishing her wand again.

Wellard stared at her questioningly. 'You keep your wand in your undergarments?'

'Answer the question!'

'You're holding it upside down.'

'Shut up!'

'Well, _I_ don't know,' he said, folding his ghostly arms. 'You could try asking his parents. They have the relevant tracking apparatus. And may I just say, you have set yourself a ghastly first impression, and you know what they say about—'

'Thank _you!_' said Rowena, and Disapparated.

Badly.

Wellard surveyed the ground she'd vanished from with considerable disgust. Quietly, he muttered, 'You've left your knickers.' He shook his head, and continued towards the castle. 'First impressions. They stick, you know!' He looked back towards where she'd been stood. 'I don't know _what_ he sees in her.'

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Meanwhile:

Helga and Richard sat, back to back, in the chilly confines of the green house. A length of rope wrapped tightly around them, securing all useful limbs and digits.

'Well,' said Helga, 'this is a bugger.'

Richard attempted to rub the back of his head against the back of hers. 'Your hair has many itchy properties.'

'Sorry.'

'Quite alright. It's still rather nice. Smells like cake.'

Helga sniffed herself. 'Oh yes, so it does.'

Something in the corner made a growling noise.

Richard attempted to turn his head, but succeeded only in mild bruising. 'Ouch. What do you suppose that is?'

'Excellent question,' said Helga, 'since this greenhouse is traditionally used to house various types of man-eating plants.'

Richard was silent for a moment. 'I don't suppose there's any chance I misheard you just then, and this greenhouse is actually full of man-treating pants?'

'Sorry, no.'

'Damn.'

'Though I'm curious as to what man-treating pants would offer.'

'Words of encouragement, probably,' said Richard, absently. 'Haven't really given it much thought. I can't _see_ any plants, can you? Only boxes and barrels and the like.'

'Well, it's possible that the cold winter has killed off all but the most resilient of plants, I suppose...'

'Wonderful.'

'Or I could be confusing it with the on-site brewery.'

Richard tried desperately to turn around, earning rope burn as well as mild internal bleeding. 'You have a brewery? On the school grounds?'

'I thought it'd be nice to follow the family business,' she admitted, forlornly. 'You know, as a sideline. I don't touch the stuff myself.'

Something in the corner growled again.

Richard sighed. 'Christ in a small tub of butter. I hope I don't die in these trousers.'

Helga attempted to pull at the rope experimentally, succeeding in tightening its grip around Richard's abdomen. He made a strange quacking noise.

'Oh, sorry.'

'Ouch.'

'Sorry.' She sighed. 'Are we going to die here, do you think?'

Richard shrugged, insomuch as was possible. 'It's a distinct possibility, considering the cold and the growling and the psychopaths and the sexual tension.'

'Pardon?'

'What? Nothing. But – look at it this way: if we do survive, just think of the anecdotes!'

Helga thought of the anecdotes. 'Mm.'

'See?'

'That's certainly an incentive for survival.'

'What does the B stand for?' said Richard.

Helga frowned. 'Pardon?'

'On your wand,' he said. 'I saw it before. It has "HBH" engraved on the handle. I imagine the Hs stand for Helga Hufflepuff, yes?'

'Oh. Er. Yes.'

'Middle name, is it?'

Helga blushed. 'Yes.'

'Belinda?'

Helga blushed more. 'Bjorn.'

Richard didn't speak.

'Helga Bjorn Hufflepuff,' Helga added, for clarification. She coughed.

Richard said, 'I rather like it.'

'Shut up.'

'No, no – it has a definite, er, Nordic ring to it. Very exotic.'

'What's yours?' Helga demanded, elbowing him slightly in the ribs.

'Eloise,' said Richard, without a trace of embarrassment.

'Pardon?'

'I overcame all my shame many years ago, Bjorn. Taunt me all you like.'

Helga didn't speak for a while. 'Eloise,' she repeated, eventually. 'Very...original.'

'It reminds me of a fragrant summer garden.'

Nobody spoke. Nobody could really add to the statement.

'What do you think they want with us?' Helga asked, ignoring both the low growl from the corner and the last thirty seconds of conversation. 'I mean, they're obviously trying to keep us out of the way of something.'

'Maybe they're trying to get to Slytherin. Or Rowena.'

'Maybe,' Helga agreed. 'But it's very coincidental that the crazy people should turn up once they've both done a runner.'

'Hm. There is that. Ooh!' He sat up, excitedly, and said, 'Maybe they're after _us!_ Oh, although that wouldn't explain them locking us up to freeze in a greenhouse, would it. Damn.'

'It was a nice suggestion,' said Helga, struggling to rest her hand on his comfortingly.

'Well, who else could they be after?'

Helga considered the options. 'Well...who else lives in the castle? Or at least visits it regularly?'

'There's Anatole,' said Richard.

'Oh yes. And the other teachers – although most of them have gone home for the holidays, that's fairly common knowledge. And the pupils, I suppose...'

'They could be after any of the students,' Richard agreed. 'Of course, most of _them _have gone home as well, but there could be someone we don't know about.'

'Well, who the hell else could it be? There's no one else here!'

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Meanwhile:

'Er...hello?' said Godric. His voice echoed back to him down the corridor. 'Hello-o?'

There was the irregular dripping of water against rock. He hated the dungeons. Aside from his necessary once-monthly retreat down here, he made it a point to keep his visits to a minimum. The floor squelched underfoot.

'Hello?' he called out again. 'Miss Ravenclaw? Haven't seen anyone for days,' he grumbled, quietly. 'Don't know what _I'm_ meant to be doing wrong...'

Proclaiming the dungeons to be empty, he turned smartly on his heel and walked back in the direction of the first floor. Perhaps the other professors were to be found in the grounds. Or perhaps the kitchens. Or the owlry, or by the—

'_Help_.'

Godric froze. It was a small, female voice. Was it coming from one of the rooms?

'_Help. Please._'

He pushed open the nearest door, wand at the ready. He frowned. 'Sophia?'

'_Incarcerous_, poochie!'

Ropes whipped all around him, and he struggled for a moment, and he fell.

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Meanwhile!

Rowena landed on a sheet of thick snow and said, '_Feck_. Ow. Oh god, my coccyx, argh,' and danced around for a while.

She ran the obligatory checking of parts. All present and correct: fingers, toes, ears, hair, pants – nope, no pants, dammit – knee caps, ankles, the lot. A little chilly around the gusset area, but she could live with that.

Right. Where was she?

Everywhere ahead of her was painted white with snow, fractured by the bare, dark branches of trees. Everything looked _vaguely_ familiar, but...

She turned around.

Ah. Yes.

Of course, she'd seen the Slytherin's homestead before. Not inside, of course, but the grounds and the exterior and the off-site dungeon. Her Granny was very keen on touring the grand castles, and it was only due to good fortune and a false beard that Rowena hadn't been identified as the owner of the drunk and disorderly elderly woman in the moat.

Rowena shuddered at the memory.

The castle stood out like a stain on the landscape; a black, squat smudge. It was shorter and less spikey than Hogwarts, but made up for its lack of height with turrets, parapets, windows and gargoyles. Many gargoyles. Rowena trudged towards it.

In truth, she didn't know what she was doing. Not really. Not strictly speaking. All she knew was that she'd been sad, and then she'd marched – aimlessly – outdoors to find Salazar, and then she'd been really cold and fallen over a log and been licked at by some kind of wild animal and stood in some hog poo and now she was _angry_. And confused. And really not thinking of much at all, beyond finding Salazar, punching him smartly on the nose and demanding some answers.

What was she _expected_ to do, after all? Just plain out _accept_ several months of dithering and cupboards and kissing and mysterious relatives turning up at all hours? Big-foreheaded trolls gallivanting about? Accusations of murder and family feuds and an hour of snogging?!

No!

Nobody puts their tongue in the mouth of a Ravenclaw and gets off scot-free!

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'You remember, ah, a short while ago, when you kissed me—?'

'Not now, Richard!'

There was something particularly undignified about discussing matters of lip-locking while back-to-back, bound by rope, and desperately attempting a synchronised shuffle away from the increasingly loud growling in the corner.

Rowena reached the castle entrance. It took her a while. She wheezed for a bit.

A voice from above said, 'Can I help you at all?'

She looked into the beady eyes of the gargoyle staring down at her, and wheezed some more.

The gargoyle nodded sagely. 'Asthma, is it?'

Rowena nodded and fell over.

'My Roderick used to suffer that.' Could gargoyles have asthma? This one could. 'Yes, very nearly killed him, it did. He was stationed over at drainpipe three, round the back exit.'

Rowena attempted to look interested, from her vantage point on the floor.

'There was quite a lot of shimmying involved over that side, I tell you. All day long, up and down he'd be – "ooh, just seen a man poaching over by the field", he'd say, and he'd have to shimmy over all the way to drainpipe seven. "Seen a poacher by the field" he'd say, and the crowd over at drainpipe seven would say, "well, that's nothing to do with me, Roderick. You want to get 'em told over at twelve". Twelve! That's a very long way for a gargoyle with asthma, that is. But, sure enough, off he'd shimmy – "seen a poacher by the field", he'd say, and they'd say "that's all very well and good sunshine, but you're after Betsy for that kind of thing, and she's out on a tea break". And so he'd have to shimmy all the way back to drainpipe three until bloody Betsy gets off her tea break, all the while wheezing like a copulating boar, and even _then _he'd have to shimmy off to drainpipe four to let 'em know what Betsy was up to! And if you're thinking, ooh, drainpipe four, that can't be far away from drainpipe three – you'd be dead wrong, sonny Jim. So, anyway, long story short: Betsy flew over and bit the head off the poacher, then flew it over to the local pub as a warning of what happens if you poach in these woods without a license, only it turns out he _did_ have a licence and Roderick's eyes were just playing up. So he got executed and Bill took over on drainpipe three.'

Rowena stared.

'Probably a lot better,' said the gargoyle, 'cause Bill's quite _athletic_, you see.'

Rowena continued to stare, and slowly got to her feet. 'Yes. Er...yes.' She cleared her throat, oxygen returning to the necessary areas. 'Er...this _is_ the home of the Slytherin family, isn't it?'

'Ooh, yes,' said the gargoyle. 'Lived here many years, they have – the master, the mistress, and the little lad who wears his mummy's make-up.'

'I don't think he does it anymore,' said Rowena.

'That's as maybe. Still a weird little bugger.'

'Does anyone else live here?' she asked, observing the huge scale of the house.

'Ooh, yes dear. Servants, teachers, all sorts. Occasionally you have an elderly relative coming here to live out btheir final years in the ancestral home, but I don't believe there's anyone in at the moment. Ooh, and then there's the cousins, of course. All the little kiddies and blood relatives how-ever-many-times removed popping in and out. Used to be round all the time when the weird kid was little.'

Rowena tried to sound offhand, and suggested, 'The Malfoys?'

'Oh, those bastards. Yes, all the time – that little blonde one with the stupid name. Xavier, is it? Something like that. He and weirdy were best chums, once upon a time. And Miss Sophia, the sadistic little tramp.'

'Really?'

'Always.' The gargoyle seemed to think for a minute, before adding, 'I always liked the ginger one, though. Gryffindor. He was a harmless lad.'

'Godric?'

'That's him. Used to come up here and feed me seagulls. But he got into some kind of accident here when he was little. Never found out what happened, but he stopped coming here after that. Shame really.'

Rowena winced, looking around the forest. Knowing Godric's once-monthly habit, she could just imagine what the "accident" involved. She said: 'Ugh. Is anyone in?'

'Oh, aye. You can find the Lord and Lady in the library, I imagine. Wanna see 'em?'

'Yes please.'

'Not an assassin, are you?'

'No.'

'Not tax-collecting?'

'No.'

'Not part of any kind of organised mob?'

'No.'

'Not planning any murders?'

'Maybe.'

'Alright then. In you come.'

The door swung open, and Rowena walked through. It slammed shut after her, leaving her alone in the dark and silence of the castle.

She swore. Loudly.

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Meanwhile:

'I can't believe I'm going to die!' Helga screeched, as they desperately hit their collective elbows against the green house wall. 'I can't believe I'm actually going to die!'

'We're not going to die! I'm not going to die!'

'We're going to actually _die!_ I'm so cold, I'm so cold, I'm so cold—'

The thing in the corner growled once more.

'—and we're going to get eaten! We're going to get eaten and we're going to freeze to death simultaneously!'

'Fear not!' said Richard, attempting to kick the glass through, and failing. 'Malfoy could still release us and offer a quick death.'

'Bloody hell!' Helga gave up moving. The growling had stopped. 'This is useless. We're wasting valuable heat energy.' In front of her, her breath rose up in a cold mist. 'This greenhouse is obviously either protected by charms, or we're made of cotton wool and have yet to realise it. I think we're _actually _going to die.'

Richard attempted to shake his head. 'We won't die, Helga. I've faced worse situations than this alone.'

'Really? Well I bloody haven't.'

'Well, look at it this way – I'm weaker than you, and will probably threfore die first. When I do, you should be able to wiggle out of the ropes, as you can do whatever you need to do without causing me further pain. At which point, I give you full permission to dine on my corpse!'

Helga blushed on his behalf. 'Richard, if I can wiggle out of the ropes I'll just open the door and peg it.'

He frowned. 'Well, that's rather ungrateful. You could at least do me the common courtesy of dining on my corpse.'

'Well, maybe.'

'At least rip off a leg, or something.'

'Ok.'

'Even just my forearm.'

'Ok, I promise.'

'Thank you.' He paused, expectantly. 'And?'

'What?'

'What if _you _were to die first?'

Helga sighed. 'Well...I _suppose_ you could dine on my corpse. If you had to.'

'Thank you.'

'Just keep it clean.'

'Pardon?'

'No...no _chest _bits, or anything like that.'

'What the hell do you take me for?'

But before Helga could respond with a description of just what exactly she took him for, the growl began again. It was soft and low to begin with, growing steadily louder. There was a shuffling noise. And a belch. And the one, slow, aching syllable:

'_Aaaaaaaaaale..._'

'Bloody Jesus Christ,' said Helga.


	16. Chapter 16: Truth

**Chapter 16: Truth**

Rowena whistled, and bounced on her toes for a while. The corridor in which she now found herself was warm and completely still, with only the dimmest half-light illuminating the settling dust. She felt as if she'd been wrapped in a damp blanket.

She peered as far into the darkness as far as was possible. 'Halloo?' she tried. She peered down the other end of the corridor. Nothing. Ok. Right. Now or nothing. Let's march.

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'Hat!' Helga screamed, in a state of pure delight. 'Hat! You delicious smelly old bastard, I love you!'

'Ach...shush your head, woman,' said Hat, shuffling towards them. 'What the hell's ye doing in me house?' Hat froze, and focussed his gaze on Richard. 'What're ye doing here?'

'I gave you wine!' Richard shrieked.

'Ye drank my wine!'

'Only a bit!'

'Shut up, both of you!' said Helga. 'Hat, I'll give you all the wine ye – you – want if you get these ropes off, I promise!'

'I'll see what I can do,' said Hat, with reluctance. 'But only cause ye's disturbing me hangover.'

'That's fine with me!'

'An' bring me ale!'

'Yes!'

'An' bring me meat!'

'Yes!'

'An' find me love.'

'What?'

'True love!'

'Just get these bloody ropes off, will you?'

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Rowena stepped carefully down the corridor. The light ebbed and faded pale shades of orange, her surroundings shrouded in a permanent near-darkness.

She'd found herself walking between rows of portraits, and slowed her pace even further to view them. There were square, strong, Gryffindor faces; there were sharp, pale Slytherins. There were complex, illustrated family trees explaining how the various families interwove. None of the portraits appeared to be moving, but you could never be sure with these things. Especially as she was fairly confident she'd heard at least one of them muttering of "nice bottom".

Covering the offending bottom with her hands, she continued her path. Dimly in the distance was source of light and a muffled conversation. Time to face the beast. Time to confront the danger. Time for action!

She coughed, politely, and knocked at the door the light was emanating from. The conversation within halted. There was a heavy, metallic sound.

A lady's voice said, '...Hello?'

'Er,' said Rowena, eloquently, 'the, er, gargoyle let me in.'

'Not a mob, are you?'

'Er...no.'

'You're sure?'

Rowena glanced down at herself, as if to check. It had been a very long day. 'Yes?'

'Hm.' There was some muttering. Rowena wavered uncomfortably. Then the lady said: 'Then you may enter.'

Rowena pushed the door open. She stepped into the room. She saw Salazar's parents. She vomited slightly inside her own mouth.

'Oh, my dear,' said Lord Slytherin, 'are you quite alright?'

Rowena swallowed, and winced. 'Eugh. Yes, yes, I'm fine – sorry. Er.' Her nausea was not much assuaged by the fact that the parents of a boy she'd not long since snogged were staring at her, bemused, and holding pitchforks. She decided profuse apology was her best option: 'Er, I'm so sorry. I know it's very impolite, barging into your property without notice—'

'Barging?' Lady Slytherin repeated, in panic. They simultaneously pointed the pitchforks in her direction.

'Not like that! Not like that!' Rowena insisted, backing away rather quickly. 'I meant, er, etiquette-wise!'

She decided etiquette was the best way to go on this one. Everything about the Slytherin's and their environment – including the fact that they hadn't even left their ornate seats to defend themselves – suggested refinery and thorough breeding.

Lady Slytherin was clearly the primary source of Salazar's aesthetic genetic material. She was fine and delicate, with a wasp-like waist and a soft nest of black hair. Her skin was pale and unblemished. Her slightly fractured speech suggested that English was her second language.

Her husband looked more, rather disconcertingly, like Godric: his face was broad and good-natured, with dark curls and a broken nose. But his eyes were the same piercing green as Salazar's. The couple fitted neatly into the room around them – illuminated by an orange fire, sacked with books and ornate artwork.

The Slytherins stared at her. Rowena tried to look as un-threatening as possible.

'You understand,' said the Lady, lowering her pitchfork, 'we have many attacks here...'

'And a bunch of gargoyles with respiratory problems,' added Lord Slytherin.

'But we see you are a witch. And a fertile one, at that,' said Lady Slytherin, approvingly.

Rowena's eyebrows shot up. She settled with: 'Thanks?'

'You are Ravenclaw?'

'Oh, yes. That's me. Rowena Ravenclaw.'

'Ah! Of course.'

Lord Slytherin said, 'It's the eyes that give it away.'

'And the heavy hips,' added the Lady.

'Meep,' said Rowena.

'My name is Albert,' said Albert Slytherin (slightly anti-climactic, she thought). He lowered the pitchfork, apparently as a sign of trust.

'I'm Rowena,' said Rowena, even though she'd already said it.

'And I am Cervixa,' said Lady Slytherin.

Rowena choked. 'Pardon?'

Cervixa tensed. 'Cervixa,' she repeated. 'It is a very traditional family name...'

Rowena nodded. 'Yep. Er. It's very...lovely. Exotic.'

Cervixa sniffed. 'Yes.'

'Can we help you at all?' asked Albert, hastily. 'Do take a seat.'

She did so.

'You're not one of William's business associates, are you?'

'Sort of,' said Rowena. 'Well – yes. I suppose I am.' She smiled apologetically.

'Oh dear. Not money, is it?'

'Sorry?'

'How much does he owe you?'

'Er, nothing. Well – technically.'

'Christ, did he get you pregnant?'

'No!'

'Do not be so crude,' said Cervixa, elbowing her husband in the ribs. 'She will become pregnant in her own time.'

'Argh.'

'Well,' said Albert, not unkindly, 'what is it, then?'

Rowena shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. Ninety per cent of her brain function was operating purely on rage and delirium. 'It's...er...William. Salazar. William.' She waved her hand around. 'You know the one.'

They continued to look at her expectantly.

'Er.' Couldn't really just burst in with a "where is he, has he murdered anyone and whatever became of my dignity", really. 'I just wondered if I could talk to you about him. Er.'

Their stare reached a new level of expectancy. Albert said, 'You've not...married him, have you?'

'What? No! No!'

'Are you sure, though? Because we've had this problem before—'

'No! And what? But mainly no!'

'Ah.' They both relaxed back into their seats. 'Excellent.'

'I just wanted to know some things,' she said, heart rate returning to a relatively healthy pace. 'About...about him. And his, er, activities.'

'Good lord.'

Bugger me, thought Rowena, I don't even know where to start.

Did he really kill one of his grandparents?

Too blunt, maybe.

Shit.

There was no way out.

There was literally no other way out.

She went for it:

'Well, just in case he _were _to impregnate me...'

The Slytherins inhaled a collective gasp.

'...do you think I could have an in-depth psychological insight into his character? I do like to play it safe.' She smiled.

Cervixa and Albert exchanged slow, serious looks. 'But, dear,' said Albert, 'that seems awfully...unsporting, doesn't it?'

'Sorry?'

'The poor boy is asleep!' said Cervixa, waving a pitchfork emphatically.

Rowena stared at them both. She went again with: 'Sorry?'

'Asleep!' Cervixa repeated. 'Poor boy - he was so tired, I tell him, Just go to sleep, William. Your bed is always here, right where you left it.'

Rowena's forehead crumpled. 'He's...asleep,' she said, slowly.

'Yes.'

'He's...here.'

'Yes!' Cervixa nodded encouragingly, glad to realise Rowena wasn't quite as slow as she appeared. 'In the dungeon, having a lovely sleepy. You wish to see him?'

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'You just stick by me, Helga,' said Richard. 'We'll be as fine as my bottom.'

Helga glanced briefly at his bottom, and nodded. 'Right.'

They'd crawled, eventually, toward the forest. It had been a matter of some debate. Once Hat's astounding strength of jaw had released them from their confines, it'd been a good five minute struggle to get to their respective feet. Cold weather and restricted blood flow will do that to a person.

And then they'd cheered, and hugged, and Hat had started sucking at Helga's shoulder and she'd had to stand on him until he stopped struggling underfoot. A nip of alcohol later – for its warming properties, of course – and they were out of there.

Eventually.

'We should go to the castle,' said Helga confidently.

'Yes,' agreed Richard. 'Except you don't have a wand and there are at least three crazy people holding up the place, from what we've gathered.'

Helga nodded. 'Ok, yes. There is that. However' – and here she raised a knowledgeable finger – 'we're equally wandless out here, and it's really nippy.'

'There's a village down the road,' said Richard.

'WIMMIN!' said Hat.

'Indeed. And from there we can gather enough vaguely-magical or at very least pointy objects with which to storm the castle, when our strength is returned.'

Helga nodded. 'Yes. But. However. I'm not entirely proficient at the "storming" aspect.'

'Ah.'

'Certainly not when the stormers are so low in number, and the stormees so...psychotic.'

'There is that.'

They dithered for a moment. And a moment more. Hat shouted ALE a couple of times, but went largely ignored.

'Alright,' said Helga, eventually, 'going on what Heather said, who do we have reason to believe is in the most danger?'

Richard said, 'To be honest, by that point I was so busy widdling my trousers I wasn't really paying attention.'

'Oh. Alright then: recap. Let's see...stupid little humans, you never understand how much danger you're in, stop waddling about, et cetera. About ten minutes waffling about pure blood, yadda yadda. Once Xavier and Sophia have taken the castle for their own, it's only a matter of time before Slytherin and Godric answer to the prophecy and start going at it. And then I giggled because it sounded rude, and she said oh very funny, but blushed anyway, and went on about how one will destroy the other and fulfill Cray's work and the monster will destroy all but the purest blood and shit, that's quite bad, isn't it?'

'Slightly,' said Richard.

'Buggernauts. That's terrible. What are we going to do? I haven't even got a wand!'

'Alright, calm down. I'm accustomed to going wandless.' Richard turned to face the village of Hogsmeade, chin held high. 'You just stick by me, Helga. We'll be as fine as my bottom.'

'Right.'

'Did you just glance at my bottom?'

'No,' said Helga, quickly.

'Hm. My plan is thus: we make our way – carefully – to the village, and eat and drink and regain our strength. And we get to Godric or Slytherin or at least one of the Crazies, and stop them putting this prophecy lark of theirs into action! What do you say?'

'Yes, dammit!' said Helga, punching the sky. 'Action!'

'Action!'

'Away!'

'Away!'

'ALE!'

'Oh, shut up.'

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Salazar's eyes shot open. He said "weurghh?", waved his arms around and sat up.

He ignored Rowena for a moment, looking instead to the beads of water that ran from his hair, down his nose and caught between his eyelashes. He looked very intently. Then he shut his eyes and lay back in bed.

'What the hell are you doing?'

His eyes remained closed, but his eyebrows knotted. Very slowly, he said: 'You're not...real.'

'Of course I bloody am,' Rowena snapped. 'I just threw half a glass of water over your face, didn't I?'

'Did you?'

'Yes!'

'That...yes,' he conceded, eyelids still sealed. 'Yes, that's a very accurate point. However, the idea of you actually being here is both unrealistic and pant-wetting, so I must conclude that I'm dreaming.' He patted his cheek, and added: 'Dreaming with moisture.'

'You are _not_ dreaming with moisture, you pointy fool! You ran away to your mummy and you're awake and now I'm here shouting at you with a glass of—are you wearing a _Onesie?_'

Eyes opened. He pulled the blanket further up his torso, and sat upright.

Rowena was red-faced, with her hands on her hips and eyes glaring. She had what Salazar mentally referred to as her "Scary Hair". Rage had eclipsed vanity. Homicide had won the battle over shampoo. Self-consciousness was no longer an issue, as all possible witnesses would soon be eating their own teeth.

Salazar pulled the blanket up further. Eventually he said, 'Long Johns, actually...'

'What?!'

'Long Johns,' he repeated, shrinking back against his pillows. 'It's a style of two-piece thermal underwear with long sleeves and—'

'Why are you wearing Long Johns?!'

'Well, it's better than a Onesie,' he said, defensively. 'How old do you think I am, two?'

'That's not what—'

'As it happens, I'm clean out of pyjamas due to a mix up with the gargoyles and pigeon delivery days.'

'That's _not_ what—!'

'And if you want me to sleep naked then you clearly haven't spent a chilly winter in a dungeon bedroom!'

'I DON'T WANT YOU TO SLEEP NAKED!'

There was a silence, like the settling of dust after an atomic blast. Rowena wheezed through her teeth.

At the door, Albert Slytherin gave a polite cough and said, 'Well, I'll leave you two kids alone, shall I?'

The door shut. Rowena wheezed. Salazar vaguely wondered if his nipples were prominent.

Eventually he cleared his throat and gave a little wave. 'So-oo...', he said.

Rowena wheezed.

'So, you found me?'

'CLEARLY!'

'Alright! Wow. Whoo. Okay.' He coughed. 'Right. Don't suppose you'd mind passing me a cloak or—'

He was interrupted by the sound of one teenage girl and twelve layers of underskirt flopping to the floor, rage temporarily simmered out. A high-pitched clucking noise came from the back of her throat.

Salazar recoiled. 'What...what are you _doing_?'

Rowena crossed her arms and legs, and stared at the floor. 'Nothing!'

'Are you...crying?'

'Sort of!' She clucked.

'Is that...is that the _noise_ you make when you cry?'

'Not crying! Not – sort of – _angry!_ Tears of rage! I BLOODY HATE YOU!'

Salazar slid his Long-John'ed legs over the edge of the bed and sunk to the floor, placing himself opposite her. He glanced down briefly to check that all the appropriate buttons were closed; the last thing he wanted to offer her anger was a visible target.

'That's...sort of...understandable,' he agreed.

'SORT OF?!'

'Well—'

'You left!' she cried, lunging towards him and prodding his chest. 'You left! Now! Why the hell did you leave me, now? DON'T ANSWER THAT!'

He didn't.

'You'd just lie to me anyway, you smelly liar!'

'I don't _smell_,' Salazar objected.

'Shut up!'

'You're kneeling on my thigh—'

'Shut up!'

'Ow.'

Her face was mere inches away from his. Rowena genuinely couldn't decide whether she wanted to nibble his earlobe or bite out his eyes.

She really hated his eyes. No one else in the world had smug irises. Self-righteous pupils. All-knowing sclera. Evil...red bits. What were they called? Them things. Oh god she hated his beady—

'Rowena—'

'Shut up!'

'Right.' He surreptitiously pushed her knee from his thigh while she glared into his eyes, lips twitching. He wondered whether she was hexing him or merely contemplating the potential pain she could inflict to his head. He wondered which was the better possibility.

Finally, Rowena ceased muttering and sighed. Very quietly, she said, 'I can't believe you ran away. At this point in our...in our whatever-it-is. With everything that's happening. I really _need _you to be at Hogwarps, Salazar. With _me_.' She sniffed. 'Or something.'

'I'm—'

'Shut up! There's only one thing I want to hear from you Salazar, and that's the truth! An explanation! And an apology!'

'That's three things—'

'TECHNICALLY IT'S TWO THINGS!'

'Right,' said Salazar, quickly, 'yep, you're quite correct. Sorry.'

'So are you going to tell me, Salazar? Everything? _Honestly?_'

'Rowena, I can't—'

'Right then!'

It was unnerving, afterwards, for Salazar to recall every time he'd seen Rowena irritated – and every time he'd been the direct cause – knowing, now, that she was always only a few muscle flexes away from punching him right in the jaw.

Which she did, presently.

Meanwhile shoving what felt like a small, oily marble down his throat.

As the pain seared through his chin and he coughed and spluttered, he was rather disappointed to realise that he was hoping her actions were a pre-cursor to a strange sexual act. No survival instinct; just hormonal ravagings.

Dammit.

'What the hell did you do to me, woman?!' he demanded, spluttering as the thing slid down his throat. It felt cold, and tingled. 'Did you poison me? I _knew_ you'd poison me eventual, you mad bastard--'

'It's not _poison_,' said Rowena, prodding his chest. 'It's _magic._ Which _I _do. Rather efficiently! Can you smell aphids?'

'What?'

Rowena remained very still, eyeballs discreetly scanning the room for common garden pests. Salazar stared in disbelief.

'No,' she said eventually, 'it's fine. Just those damn otters.'

'Is this the effect I have on women?' Salazar wondered aloud. 'I'm sure Sophia wasn't always so mental.'

'Sophia!' said Rowena, as back-with-it as was possible in the circumstance. 'Yes! Tell me about her! What _is _she?'

Salazar shrugged. 'Damned if I know. She's a distant relative who I'm legally bound to marry should she fail to conceive a male heir before her twenty-first birthday WHAT?!'

'Ah-ha!'

'Why did I say that?!'

'Ah-ha-ha-HA!'

'You've given me a truth potion!' he yelped, pointing a finger accusingly. 'You wily tart!'

'I _AM _A TART!' said Rowena, leaping to her feet in victory. 'And I am sneaky!'

'Not really _sneaky_, you just pushed it into my mouth--'

'Shush! Questions! Now!'

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'Question One,' said Helga, concealed behind a thorny bramble bush. 'Where _is _Rowena?'

'No idea,' said Richard, from the high limbs of a tree.

'Right. Question two: Where is Slytherin?'

'Definitely not up here.'

'Right. Question three--'

'ALE!'

'What?' Helga gave Hat a sharp sideways glance. 'Could you shut up a minute? We're trying to establish what's going on.'

'Ach, sorry,' said Hat, from behind a tree stump. 'I thought ye said "ale".'

'No I didn't. I said "three". Ale, three. Ale, three. Got it?'

'To be fair,' said Richard, 'I thought you said "ale" as well.'

'Well I didn't!' Helga snapped, throwing a pine cone at him. 'I said three! Now shush. Question the third: Can we trust Slytherin, considering all Heather's said about this prophecy lark? Oh, question four - where _is _Heather? Question five--'

'Wait wait!' Richard flapped, causing snow to topple from his branch. 'I didn't answer ale or four yet!'

'_Three_,' Hat corrected him, smugly.

'Three, sorry--'

'It doesn't matter,' said Helga sternly, 'these are all rhetorical. All we really need are answers from Slytherin, moral support from Rowena, big pointy objects from Godric, dark magic from Anatole and we'll attack Malfoy and take back the castle! _Shit!_ Godric! I knew there was someone missing.' She glanced back towards the castle. A large green flag had been erected over the main entrance, bearing what was either a big silver weasel or the Malfoy family mascot. Her nose wrinkled. 'Right, well there's a good chance we'll have to meet Godric inside. Unless - ooh! - we send up a big red explosion into the sky so that he and Anatole can come and find us! Except we haven't actually got wands any more, have we? Oh poo.'

'There there,' said Richard comfortingly.

'Does anyone have a carrier pigeon with them?'

'Not on me, no.'

'Damn.' Something in the woods cracked like a breaking twig. Helga sighed. 'Question five,' she said, 'if it wasn't Godric - and it definitely wasn't _always_ Godric - then what is it that lives in the woods and kills muggle-borns?'

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'A great big snake,' Salazar said, through a sigh. 'Must be. Hagrid managed to sell me the egg once. Said it would have a high re-sale value - I can only assume Malfoy was behind that one. Then it hatched when we were still in school and I didn't know what it was, so...er...'

Rowena glared. 'You let it go?!'

'I just thought it was a snake! It was disgusting! I didn't realise it was pre-programmed to destroy every mudblood it came across--'

'Don't. Say. Mudblood!'

'Well, whatever then!' He sniffed. 'Institutionalised racism is a serious matter, Ravenclaw.'

She ignored him, for the benefit of her mental health. 'So how did it get to Hogwasp?'

'I've no idea. I didn't see it for a long time - just sort of assumed it had gone off and died somewhere. But then it turned up in a book I was reading - all this about poison fangs and a paralysing glare - and a few weeks later it turns up again. But bigger. Talking to me in snake-language just as I'm trying to get to sleep.'

Rowena stared down at her feet. 'You could have mentioned something.'

'I was _scared_,' he said. 'Anyway, it's only responsible for the muggle-born deaths, if that helps at all.'

'Meaning?'

'Wolfie must have killed the other one.'

'Crap.'

'Oh!' he said, excitedly. 'And, also, the good news is that the snake hasn't fully matured yet, so it doesn't yet possess the power of paralysis _or_ poison fangs! It just mauls people.'

'Great,' said Helga, as they trudged - quickly - towards the safety of the lake. 'Just _great._'


	17. Chapter 17: Prophecy

**Chapter 17: Prophecy**

'So,' said Sophia, shuffling to make herself comfortable, 'what do we do now?'

Xavier gestured elegantly around the great hall. 'We wait.'

'For what?' said Heather.

'_Wait_,' Sophia echoed, ignoring her. 'Wait, wait, wait. Xavier, this entire thing's so exciting, I'm not sure I can contain myself any longer. I'll positively widdle!'

At this, Godric's eyes darted around in horror. For it was his bound and paralysed body, face down, that Sophia was currently using as a lounger.

'That dress was my mothers,' said Xavier, injured, 'you'll do no such thing. We _wait_, Soph.' He sniffed an open bottle of wine and, nose wrinkled, took a swig. 'You can't rush these things.'

They'd cleared the hall easily; a sweep of Xavier's arm and the long, unsteady tables had flown across the room, crashing to splinters against the walls. Malfoy family flags were unfurled, hanging languorously from every beam, window and doorway. Heather had been sent to retrieve chairs from Salazar's study. Xavier lounged over one now; the other was vacant, and Heather had no intention of filling it. Instead she stood by the window, scanning the depthless horizon of the snow-bleached grounds.

'If you don't mind me asking,' she said, 'I mean, god knows I'd hate to interrupt your masterful plotting, but what the hell are we waiting _for?_'

Sophia raised an upper-class eyebrow. 'You speak very rudely, for a treacherous little run away with a flat bottom.'

'I do _not_ have a flat bottom,' Heather said, reddening. 'And I came back, didn't I?'

'She's quite right,' said Xavier, with a regal wave of his hand. 'The girl has a right to know, Soph, flat-bottomed though she may be.'

'_I am not—_'

'Darling, you're practically an ironing board. Now sit down, will you, and perhaps we'll enlighten you.'

After a moment of consideration, Heather returned to her seat. She brushed the creases from her dress and said, 'Alright. I'm sat.'

'Excellent,' he said, smile peaking. 'Wine? Biscuit? Nibbles? Sat comfortably? Yes?'

'Yes,' she snapped. 'Just bloody tell me.'

Sophia giggled, and patted Godric's red curls. 'Oh, I do love this story, Xavier. Can't I tell it?'

'Now now,' said Xavier, a slim finger raised in warning, 'you know it's my turn. You always take it on a vivid pornographic tangent. Alright, Heather: here's the story. It's called The Coward and the Wizard, or, How Malfoy got his groove back. Ready?'

'_Yes._'

'Then let's begin.'

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'I can't believe you poisoned me,' said Salazar, pulling a pair of breeches over his long Johns. 'I feel positively..._abused_.'

'I haven't poisoned you,' Rowena said, impatiently. 'I've told you. It's just a harmless truth potion—'

'_Potion?! _I could have choked on the damn thing!'

'Alright, truth...pill, then. Now would you be quiet? It'll only last a few minutes!'

'Oh, well, yes,' he said, olive green shirt slipping over his head, 'that's a fabulous incentive, isn't it? That's sure to get me talking. I have my pride, you know!'

'You just used the word "fabulous" in a non-ironic sense,' said Rowena, arms folded. 'You kissed goodbye to your pride when you nibbled my earlobe. Now listen!'

Salazar had, in fairness, paused at her words; whether in fair obedience or wistful reminiscence of aforesaid earlobe nibbling, she was unsure. However he wore the misty-eyed grin of a pervert, so she could probably make an educated guess. She pinched his forearm.

'Ow! Harpy—'

'OK,' she said, pre-emptively moving to the door in case he should attempt to escape. 'First things first: why didn't you tell me about the man-eating reptile?'

'Never really came up,' he said, with a withering look. Then the truth poured from him, like treacle from a tin: 'To protect you, you bloody imbecile. I didn't want you getting hurt, or hating me, or refusing me admission to your underskirts! What the flyak would you think of me, on top of everything else? Better I try to fix things myself than getting you involved and/or killed goddammit woman!' He wheezed, and bit into his fist.

Rowena blinked, cheeks immediately flushing. She took half a step back and said, 'Ah.'

'Yes!'

'Right. Ah.' Unsure of how to respond – almost dizzy from the blast of emotion – she mumbled, 'My underskirts are easy. I'll flash anyone for a sickle.'

Salazar sat down on his bed, straw mattress rustling beneath his weight. 'You're a strange, strange woman.'

'Sorry.'

'Although they did say that about you at school, actually. Three-Sickle Knicker-Claw they called you, in the boy's dorm.'

'_Three_ sickles?' said Rowena, with a scoff. 'As if. You'd be scaring trade away at that price.'

He scratched his head sheepishly. 'Weird. I was sure I'd made that one up. Wrote it on the latrine walls and everything.'

Rowena sighed, and joined him on the bed. 'Alright,' she said, 'A, _I _was kidding. B, I owe Crispin Lightfoot either six sickles or a flash of knicker elastic, and either way he's going to be sorely disappointed.' She sniffed. 'But it does explain a lot.' She squinted at him, head cocked to an angle. 'Were you really trying to protect me?'

'From Crispin Lightfoot?'

'No, from the man-eating phallus.'

'Crispin Lightfoot? Har-har.' He stopped, and stared at her. 'Sorry, _phallus?_'

She shrugged. 'Basilisks are a bit phallic.'

'Pervert.'

'Well, were you?'

He sighed. 'Rowena, I see very little point in you double-checking anything said under the influence of a truth potion. Yes. Protecting.' He looked her critically up and down, and added, 'Christ alive knows why, you vicious little biscuit.'

Rowena grinned with pride. 'Anything else you're protecting me from?'

'I once erased your memory,' said Salazar, immediately.

Rowena laughed. She stopped. Her smile dropped. 'What?'

'Shit.'

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'It was hi-_lair_-ious!' Sophia shrieked, struggling to regain her composure. 'Oh, what a night – what a night that was!'

'Indeed,' said Xavier, stiffly. 'My dear, if you recall, _I_ should be the one telling this particular anecdote–'

'Oh, shush,' she said, straightening up. 'You weren't even there; I'll tell it.' She'd exchanged her Godric-shaped seat for an equally paralysed, equally stripped-bare-to-the-torso Anatole shape. It was a lot less sturdy, she decided, but slightly more comfortable.

Heather looked between them all, aggravation re-established. 'I don't get it,' she said. 'What did he do?'

'He wiped her memory, of course!' cried Sophia, triumphantly. '_Very _badly, as well – tried to be selective with what he took away. Oh, what a hoot!'

'And when was this?' Xavier prompted dutifully, apparently conceding the story as hers.

'Oh, this was – ooh – ages ago, now. You'll remember it, Heather; little bash, everyone in posh frocks. Calamity. Remember?'

Heather racked her brains. 'The...shin-dig?' she offered, uncertainly. 'The party?'

'Ah yes! That was it. Silly-ass idea of William's, to...boost morale, or something.' She offered a cartoonish mime of someone drinking heavily from a bottle. 'If you get my meaning. Back when all those kiddies were first being killed – ooh, what fun that was! Terrible party. But that's beside the point.'

'Quite,' said Xavier, dryly.

'That was the night,' said Sophia, folding her legs, 'that I found Salazar again, for the first time in many years.' An odd smile crossed her face. 'Yes...asked him to marry me, as a matter of fact. Just to ensure I received my inheritance.' Bitterly, she added, 'He turned me down, of course.'

Heather said, 'Well, of course, we were an item at the time...'

She was silenced by Sophia's mocking stare. 'Yes, darling. _That's _what stopped him. Now, it's fair to say that I felt just a little bit annoyed by William's refusal, and he and I had a bit of a...falling out.' She smiled fondly at the memory. 'You see, if there's one thing little William is forbidden by the terms of his curse, it's to fall in love.'

Heather's entire face pinched into a disgusted expression. '_Love?_' she repeated, unsteadily. 'You mean he..._loves _her?'

'Christ,' said Sophia, flippantly, 'damned if I know. But I could see the threat of it; his selfishness..._He will love, and his love shall kill_ – fifth line of the bloody curse!'

'But I thought you _wanted_ him cursed,' said Heather, mind spinning. 'I don't understand—'

'Well I didn't at the time,' she snapped. 'All I wanted was to be impregnated! But then dear Xavier found me, and convinced me that his curse would only do us good...' Her lips curled to a cold, wolfish grin. Then immediately she snapped out of it, and concluded: 'But William thought it better for his lady-love to forget about that part, so – poof! - he obliviates her memories of little old me. Doesn't want that sort of complication, on top of everything else.'

Heather grinned. 'That's brilliant. God, if she was to find out – god, she'd _explode_ – she'd kill him!'

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'I forgive you, Salazar.'

Salazar didn't move. Then, slowly, he emerged from behind the shield of pillow he'd grabbed, mid-explanation. His green eyes peered over the top, cautiously.

Rowena was still. She was calm.

Salazar said, 'What?'

'I forgive you,' she repeated.

'No,' he said, slowly. 'No, you want to throttle me. With your bra.'

'No. Well, a little.'

He dodged back behind the pillow. 'I _knew _it, you're going to destroy me!'

'No,' she said, slowly. The slowness was not intended to be reassuring; rather, it was the result of a gradual realisation that she was being honest on this one. She definitely _didn't_ want to kill him.

No – that didn't make sense. He'd removed her memory. He'd manipulated her! He'd lied! He'd – no, no matter how many times she thought about it, she was never really surprised.

'It's OK,' she said, eventually. 'You were...protecting me, and you didn't want me to think of you as some bizarrely evil plague victim. Yes?'

'Ye-es,' he said, cautiously. He lowered the pillow. 'And I definitely won't do it again. Especially if you let me escape with my life,' he added, hintingly.

'Right. Good. Excellent.' She sighed, and glanced around Salazar's bedroom. It was squashed, grey and damp, with a not-quite-placeable bovine aroma. She noticed, for the first time, that his blankets were decorated with images of cartoon snakes in nightgowns and sleeping caps. She frowned. 'You haven't been here for a while, have you?'

He followed her gaze. 'Ah. No, I haven't.' His pillow bore an image of a friendly looking snake wrapped around a crescent moon. Both were smiling.

Rowena nodded. 'Let's go somewhere else for a while.'

'You're going to hurt me, aren't you?'

'No!'

'Alright,' he said. 'After you, then.' He carried the pillow with him.

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Helga wheezed, spluttered and fell to her knees in the snow. 'Sweet beardy Jesus!' she cried, taking the opportunity to check herself for body parts. 'What the sweet loving mother of crap _was _that?!'

With a loud rustling sound, Richard emerged from the forest's darkness and collapsed by a rock. 'Bloody hell!' he shrieked. And then, for good measure, 'I mean, really, bloody hell!'

'What _was _it?! It had – it had – _teeth!_'

'So many teeth!'

'Sweet badgery goddess!'

'BOLLOCKS!', contributed Hat. Helga removed him from the inside of her robes, and set him down at her feet. 'SODOMY!'

'What _was _it?' Helga asked again, massaging her stitch. 'I mean it looked like – it looked like a snake, but huge!'

'GHOULIES!'

'No!' She struggled back to her feet, and immediately thought better of it. 'Oof,' she said, sitting on a fallen rock. 'That was a giant snake, wasn't it?'

Richard nodded dumbly.

'And we escaped!'

He nodded again.

'Without wands!'

Another nod.

'It was so awful!'

'And a bit phallic,' said Richard, still shell-shocked. 'Did you notice?'

'I _did,_' Helga whispered, nodding gravely. 'It was like one of my adolescent nightmares come to life.'

'But it didn't kill us,' said Richard, perking up a little, 'so that's rather good, isn't it?'

Hat somehow contrived to roll his eyes. ''Course it didn't kill ye, it wasn't after ye!'

Helga scowled at him. 'How do you know? You didn't even see it, you were tucked inside my blouse, crying like a pantaloon.'

'Sweetie,' said Hat (rather alarmingly, upon reflection), 'I'm a _Sorting Hat. _'Tis my job to know it, whether I be sobbing or nay!'

'Oh, shut up.'

''Tis! Yon beastie has been sent on a hunt for muggle-borns!'

Her eye's narrowed. 'How do you know that?'

'_Sorting Hat_,' he said again, gruffly. ''Tis just how I roll.'

Helga and Richard exchanged looks. With a twitch of his head, Richard conveyed the internationally recognised sign language for "you grab him, I'll make threatening remarks until he talks". Helga shook her head, signally the internationally recognised "I don't think that'll be quite necessary, but grand idea all the same".

'What're ye doing?' Hat asked suspiciously, shuffling out of immediate grabbing range. 'I saw that head twitch!'

'Nothing,' Helga assured him, quickly. 'Nothing, Hat, we just wondered – um – you're saying you know everything, yes?'

'Aye. Basically everything, past and present.'

'_Basically_ everything?'

'I'm no' a prophet, lairdy.'

'Oh, right, course not. Sorry. Um.' She attempted the gentle shrug internationally recognised as "don't suppose you'd be willing to exchange vital information in exchange for a year's supply of brown wine, forgetting all about my occasionally intentionally standing on you?"

Hat nodded smartly. 'Done and done. What do ye want to know, missy?'

Helga grinned. She was a good shrugger. 'Um, ooh. Where to start? Um...ooh, OK. Why are—?'

'Put me on yon head, moron!'

'Oh, sorry.' She did as told; he fell snugly over her eyes, eclipsing the world from view. 'OK. Why—?'

'He's not welting your brain or anything, is he?' asked Richard, nervously.

'Oh. I hadn't thought of that. You're not, are you?' she added, to Hat.

'Nae. And stop talkin' so damn loud.'

'Sorry.' She cleared her throat and, quietly, said, 'Why are Malfoy, Heather and that other woman storming our castle?'

Hat didn't reply for a moment. Then he said – and the voice seemed to appear right there, inside her head – 'They're forcing Slytherin into action. Also they're trying to ruin your business. Also they're trying to take over Scotland, forcibly separate it from the rest of the island and...er...float it out to sea and rename it "MalfoyLand".'

There were several things amiss with the statement. First among them was Hat's voice, which was somehow clear, lucid and professional; second was everything else.

'MalfoyLand?' said Helga. 'Seriously?'

Hat said, 'Yes. But that's an unrelated megalomaniac dream; you just need to concern yourself with the first points.'

'I see.' Her forehead crumpled. 'Force him into action, you say?'

'Yes; action against Godric Gyffindor.'

'Godric?' Helga repeated, a little too loudly. 'What on earth would he do with him?'

Again, Hat didn't immediately reply. Then he said, 'Whew-whee, missus. That's another box of frogs altogether, that one is.'

'Ah. OK, you'd better tell me about that.'

Nothing.

'Hat?'

'Hang on, woman,' he snapped. 'I'm thinkin'. Right. Ready?'

'Yes.'

'You want it in the form of a song?'

'Um...no, thank you.'

'Not even a little bit?'

'OK,' she said, 'fine. Just the occasional stanza.'

'Corkin'. Right:

I first begin with a family tree,

Weaving tales of cousins three.

Singing _hi-dilly-ho diddly-da verily dee._

It began with the birth of Cray Slytherin, youngest son of Lord Slytherin of the Fen. Cray was the last of six brothers, each more monstrous and malicious than the last. Lord Slytherin's greatest wish was to destroy all muggle-born wizards, and it was a battle he fought viciously.

Upon his death, Lord Slytherin did not wish for his land and title to simply fall to his eldest by virtue of his birth; for he desired an heir who would continue to work in his own name, committing the same evil that he was so feared for. _Singing ho-lally-doo, trippie-lee trippie-la, etc._

The boys fought wickedly for the privilege, with wand and with sword. Finally, as the elder Lord Slytherin lay dying, Cray staggered to his father's death bed with blood on his hands and five broken wands in his belt. It was decided: Lord Cray Slytherin was born.

But o, it was a bad-done deed;

For Cray did suffer for his deed.

And as—'

'You can't rhyme deed with deed,' Helga pointed out, critically.

Hat sighed. 'Do you want the damn story or nay?!'

'Yes, but not if the rhyme's are going to be that half-arsed—'

'But O!' Hat repeated, ignoring her. 'It was a bad-done deed,

For evil kills what evil breeds (happy now?).

Illness had a-taken hold,

Stuck like splinter in his soul.

Old wounds spread slow poison through Cray's blood, and his health deteriorated day by day. Soon he was unable to walk without aid. He sought an old soothsayer, and asked her if he would ever see the destruction of the muggle-born race. The soothsayer looked to the future, and said that he would not. She told him that his descendent would fight for the destruction of muggle-borns, but not he.

Furious that he was unable to continue his father's wicked work, Cray saw to it that he would have sons of his own to continue his line.

But Cray's first child was a daughter: a noble and bright soul, who left his land and married a humble village boy by the name of Gryffindor.

Cray was furious when his wife brought him another child – another girl, who wanted so badly to inherit her wicked father's title. But Cray would not offer his land to a woman. She stayed with her father, and married a sour noble by the name of Malfoy.

Cray had one more girl after this, born of his maid: the girl was all but abandoned by the family, and lived a servant's existence many miles away from home. Her name was Bruntt.

Now Cray grew old, and weaker by the day. He begged a witch to ensure his next child was a boy, offering in exchange the life of his wife. This time he was successful. He called the boy Albert, and his wife died as he was born.

Alas, poor Cray; all his children were idiots.

Albert was Cray's greatest disappointment. He was arrogant and hard, but not an evil man. With heavy heart, Cray realised the duty of his inheritance must fall to one of his grandchildren.

And with—'

'Um,' said Helga, politely. 'Sorry, Hat, you're doing very well, but do you think you could possibly hurry it up a little bit? Castle under siege, friend missing, big snake, et cetera.'

Hat sighed. 'God damn. Right. Fine!

...et cetera et cetera, _taloo-rilly-aye_. Godric Gryffindor, he soon realised, was too kind a spirit; he did not have violence or hatred within him. Xavier Malfoy was cruel, but arrogant; he would not follow direction. Sophia Bruntt was frankly a nutcase. But in Salazar Slytherin, he saw great potential.

As his health deteriorated, Cray lived alongside Albert and his family. In the young boy – still only a child – he saw ambition, loneliness, a strong will, a disregard for the rules. And he saw the frustrated isolation of a young, friendless boy, teased by his cousins and molly-coddled by his parents. Cray nurtured these feelings. He taught him to duel, he told him tales of murder and blood lust. He told him of muggle-borns, and how they would destroy the wizarding world if allowed to continue. And he asked the boy, on his eleventh birthday, what he would like most in the world.

Salazar thought of the boy who was strong, brave and popular. He said, 'I would like Godric Gryffindor to cry.'

Cray smiled, then. He said, 'Would you like to see the eradication of the mudblood race?'

'Of course,' he said, loyally. 'That also.'

'If you promise to destroy the subhuman mudbloods,' said the old man, 'then I will see to it that Godric Gryffindor cries.' And he bound the young boy in an unbreakable vow that holds him to this day.

The following evening, Cray called the boy to his tower overlooking the fields beyond Slytherin castle. He saw Godric Gryffindor playing by the forest, climbing and jumping, playing with a wooden sword. And Salazar cried out in horror as, from nowhere, a huge black dog emerged from the woods, tearing into the boy's flesh and biting into his bones. Salazar's cries alerted the gargoyles, who flew to Gryffindor's aid. But it was, by then, too late: he was infected by the bite of the werewolf and, as Cray had promised, the boy wept and wept.

Salazar fought his grandfather. He said he no longer wished to fulfil his promise, now understanding Cray's methods of accomplishment. Cray grew furious: for how could this boy be the descendent promised by the soothsayer? He cursed the boy to live a life of war. He would be stalked by destruction. Where he warred, there would be death; where he loved, there would be death.

Cray again summoned the soothsayer, demanding to know how his grandson could be capable of living out the prophesied events. The soothsayer claimed that there would be a great battle between his heir and the enemy of his heir, and that this battle would decide the outcome.'

Helga said, 'What?'

'Jus' told you,' said Hat. 'Weren't you listening?'

'Yes, of course! It was just all a bit weird.'

''Course it was. It's history.'

Helga sighed. 'Right. So that's all quite bad, isn't it? Slytherin's cursed with destruction, just to make sure he follows through with his promise of further destruction. Suppose it's true, is it, about him killing his granddad?'

'Oh aye.'

'Age eleven?'

'Yep.' His brim curled into a shrug. 'Can't blame him really.'

'Hm. Suppose not.' She thought things over. Then she said, 'So that's why Xavier and Sophia are holding up the castle, is it? To provoke Slytherin into acting on his promise?'

'Aye, that's about the gist of it.'

From somewhere very far away, she thought she heard someone calling, '_Helga._' She ignored it, and pressed on: 'All this about fighting the enemy of the heir – he has to fight Gryffindor, is that what they're saying?'

'That's what they interpret it as, aye,' said Hat, carefully. 'An' whoever wins decides the fate of muggle-borns.'

'_Helga!_'

'That's incredibly unfortunate,' she said, chewing her lower-lip. 'And you don't—'

'HELGA!' Richard ripped Hat from her head and grabbed her wrist, dragging her at a run across the snow. She looked back briefly to see the basilisk emerging from the words, curling high into the air, and Hat floating softly to the ground. Then she ran a little faster.

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'...and _that_,' said Salazar, taking a swig of questionably-scented alcohol, 'is why Xavier and Sophia are always lurking around. And that's why I had to run away. _Comprende_?'

Rowena blinked. She'd remained silent through the entire story. He's said it all in such a matter-of-fact way; slightly bored, even. It was only now that he turned to face her directly.

'...Um,' she managed.

They were sat inside a utility cupboard. It was quite airy, as far as cupboards went. It just felt like a home from home for them, somehow.

'That's also why I went out with Heather, incidentally,' he added, leaning on a broom. 'Trying to keep you out of it. Capiche?'

'Don't say capiche,' she pleaded, weakly. 'I was willing to let you get away with _comprende_, but capiche is one too far.'

He looked mildly impressed. 'Is that all you've got to say?'

'Um...I think so.' She glanced around the cupboard for inspiration and, finding none, shook her head. 'Yep, that's all. Um. Except, at what point during the anecdote did the truth potion wear off?'

He shrugged. 'Sometime during the "I wiped your memory" story.'

'Wow. Um. OK.'

'Yeah.'

Rowena's mind _wasn't _spinning. She felt it ought to have been. She felt, instead, that something very minor had been whispered in her ear, and revealed the solution she knew had been there all along. Like being informed that that piece of the jigsaw went in the corner and not the left-hand side.

She was fairly sure the shock would catch up with her eventually, but for the moment she wasn't complaining.

'Right,' she said, after a while. 'I think a plan is in order.'

Salazar nodded. 'Yes. I plan to remain locked in this cupboard until death.'

'Well, that's not going to work,' she said, impatiently. 'You'll have to leave sooner or later. No – what we have to do is find Godric, and tell him everything. If there are two of you intently focussed on not killing each other, you obviously won't.'

'But the prophecy—'

'Prophecy, smophecy,' said Rowena. 'My grandmother was a Seer; she'd be the first to admit that they're very ambiguous and liable to fault.'

Salazar nodded, conceding her point. 'Alright then, but the unbreakable vow? With emphasis on the "unbreakable" aspect?'

She shrugged. 'Break it? He's dead, isn't he? Doesn't that nullify it?'

'He's never going to be really dead,' he muttered. 'There's still some part of him lingering on—'

'Yes, but we're ignoring metaphors for now. Now shush.'

'I love you.'

'Shush,' she repeated, then laughed. Rather loudly.

Salazar frowned, and folded his arms. 'That's no way to react,' he said. 'I was being very honest and vulnerable.'

Rowena couldn't quite halt the stream of laughter, but managed to say, 'Sorry. I'm sorry – just—'

'What's wrong with you?' he demanded. 'Your face is – what are you _doing?_'

She couldn't stop it now; her entire body was shaking uncontrollably. She couldn't even sit up, but slumped into the door of the cupboard, giggling and snorting, arms wrapped around herself and eyes screwed shut.

Salazar sighed. 'I'm not at all happy about this, you know. _Years_ I've spent, thinking about you. Hating you initially, true enough. But cue puberty, Ravenclaw? The stages of your particular female development? Bloody hell! Those were a few conflicting emotions, let me tell you. "Keep clear of that Ravenclaw girl", my father told me. "Good stock, maybe, but the entire family's as mad as mice". Bloody hell. Then you have to go and start a sodding school with me, you horrible little woman.'

Rowena, still giggling, weakly extended a hand and grabbed onto his knee. She squeezed it gently, which as we all know is the international sign language for "I'm sorry, it's just the hysteria. Just give me a minute.".

Salazar grinned and said, 'You love me too. Ha!' As the giggles subsided, and her face turned up to his, he added, 'And why wouldn't you, indeed? I'm a catch.' They kissed; they kissed again. 'I'm a catch and a sodding half. That's what I am.'


	18. Chapter 18: Spikes

**A/N: **The final stretch starts here! Lor'...

**Chapter 18:** **Spikes**

Light-headed and messy-haired, Rowena and Salazar trudged the ascent towards Hogwarts. Everything was darkness. Thick clouds blanketed the night sky, obscuring the vague glow of moon. Suddenly the crumbling mass of castle looked menacing in the distance, like a figure waiting to pounce.

Rowena halted, immediately sinking several inches into the snow. She cocked her head to one side.

'What's up?' said Salazar, stopping a few paces ahead of her.

She lowered her wand. 'Er...I don't know. Something.'

He raised an eyebrow, and followed her line of sight. She was staring over his shoulder, to the awkward and night-obscured shape of the castle.

'Er...right. That's where you live,' he reminded her, pointedly. 'You teach there, with—'

'I know what it is,' she said, kicking a shower of snow in his direction. 'I've not lost my mind. Just...'

'What?'

'Something's _wrong_,' she said, uncertainly. 'Something...can't you see?'

He took a few steps back, until he was stood by her side – as if observing from the same distance would reveal something astounding. He held up the illuminated tip of his wand, and waved it around. 'Nope,' he concluded, after a moment. 'Can't see it. Come on, my personal possessions are freezing—'

'No – wait – put out your wand. _Nox_.'

'Ah, yes, excellent. Now I can't see anything at all—'

'_Look._' She pointed at a tower that jutted out an odd angle. 'See that tower?'

'Yes?'

'That's not a tower.'

'Come again?'

'It's not,' she said. 'Or if it is, it's a new one. That one too,' she added, moving her finger along. 'And that weird stick thing. And how long have we had a flag on top of Gryffindor tower?'

Salazar squinted. 'How the hell can you see all that?'

'You're forgetting how many blueprints and brochures I had to peruse,' she muttered, darkly.

'_Lumos. _Let's – let's take a closer look.' They continued towards the castle, walking in silence. Each step was signalled by the loud crunch of boots in snow. Salazar's hand shook; a feeling of strange unease welled up inside him.

Finally, the castle was close enough to study in detail. They came to a puzzled halt.

After a while, Rowena pointed out the obvious: 'It's...flags,' she said, looking between them and Salazar. 'Everywhere. Whose—?'

'Malfoy,' he finished, grimly.

She squinted, and raised her wand. 'Why is his family emblem a disgruntled-looking weasel?'

'It's a picture of his mother, actually.'

'Oh. Really?' She looked again. 'You've got an ugly aunty, Salazar.'

'She does have a certain look about her, doesn't she...You know what this means?'

'My side of the gene pool needs to be more dominant than yours if we're to have attractive children?'

'It means they've come for me,' he muttered, following the castle wall around to the entrance. 'They've stormed the castle, and they're waiting for me in – children?' He grinned, suddenly. 'I never thought about that before.'

'Never mind that!'

'Sorry. You brought it up.'

'Yes, but that was before you started talking about castle-storming and creepy things.' She shuddered, and grabbed his arm. 'Pickled Jesus, Salazar, what are we going to do?'

'Run away?' he suggested, hopefully. 'Ow! Alright, woman.'

'This is serious, Salazar! They could hurt people! We still have students in there! And presumably they have Godric, and – Helly!'

'She'll be OK, don't—'

'No, I mean – Helly!' She pointed through the darkness, to the other side of the vast doorway. Barely discernible, but present nonetheless, was a blonde mass of curly hair and an unflattering brown cloak. 'Helga!'

Helga whipped around, squinting through the dark. 'Ro!'

From somewhere nearby came a loud thud, and an, '_Oof. _Where?'

The two girls collided into a rather painful-sounding hug. Neither was particularly slender, and the collision of bosoms alone was enough to knock them both off balance.

'Ro!' Helga squeaked, trapped by the taller girl's armpit. 'Ro, there's something really important you have to know!'

They separated. 'What is it?'

'It's him, Ro!' she cried, pointing over Rowena's shoulder. 'Salazar! There's a curse, and he—'

'Oh,' said Rowena, waving a dismissive hand, 'I already know.'

'Really?'

'Yeah.'

Salazar grinned, and waved. 'Hi.'

Helga looked back at Richard and shrugged. 'She says she already knows.'

'What about the snake?' Richard demanded.

'Oh, yes,' said Helga, 'what about—?'

Rowena nodded. 'Yeah, I know that too.'

'Oh.' Hegla bounced on her heels for a moment. 'I feel a bit redundant, to be honest.'

Rowena smiled, moving past her and into the embrace of her brother. As ever, he squeezed a little more tightly than was necessary, expelling the breath from her lungs. 'Good to see you, pet,' he mumbled, patting her hair like a six year old with a cat. 'Nice to know you're still alive, and that.'

'You – too.' Rowena managed, arms flailing.

'Did he tell you he loves you yet?'

'Yep!'

'Excellent!' He released her, and patted her head. 'There, there.'

'_Oof!_'

Rowena spun around to the source of the noise, and saw possibly the most unlikely sight she had ever encountered: Helga's feet kicking the air, a little off the ground, and Salazar holding her there. After a moment he dropped her, and grinned.

Helga massaged her ribs and stared at him furiously.

'I'm getting good at this hugging lark,' said Salazar proudly.

'I only went for a handshake!' Helga cried.

Salazar shrugged. 'Be grateful.'

'OK,' said Rowena quickly, before the conflict had time to escalate. 'We all know what's going on, yes?' A few nods. 'What do you suggest we do?' Salazar raised a hand. 'Yes?'

'Getting rid of Xavier and Sophia should probably be the first port of call,' he said, gesturing inside the castle. 'If we're all armed and they're caught off-guard, it shouldn't be too much of a challenge to—'

'Don't have wands,' Helga interrupted, apologetically. 'Heather nicked off with mine, and Richard swapped his for a camel seven years ago.'

'Ah.' He scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'Don't suppose you still have the camel?'

Richard shook his head. 'Sorry.'

'Damn. It would have given us the element of surprise, at least.'

Rowena raised an unsteady hand and said, 'Ahem, sorry, you said _Heather _was in there?'

'Oh yes,' said Hegla. 'She tied us up inside a potting shed.'

'Ha!' She pointed at Salazar mockingly, and performed a little dance.

'Shut up,' he said, mildly. 'Now, the second-most important thing to deal with is Gryffindor. Fortunately the moon isn't full for another week or so, so that won't be an issue. However we need to concentrate intently on not fighting, killing or exchanging harsh words with each other, or anything else that may be considered a battle over the continuation of humanity. Capiche?'

'Stop it with the capiche,' said Rowena. 'But yes. Not even in self-defence.'

'And if we manage all of that with minimal injuries,' continued Salazar, 'then we'll have successfully defeated the very laws of magic itself. Hooray,' he added doubtfully, as an afterthought.

'Hooray,' Helga agreed.

They all mumbled "Hooray" and waved.

Then Helga said, 'I've got a sword, of course.'

'Sorry?'

'In my room,' she said, as if this cleared things up at all.

Rowena suddenly remembered, and said, 'Oh yes – the ornamental one Godric gave you—'

'Not that piece of crap,' said Helga, dismissively. 'It's got _spikes_ on.'

'Oh.' Nobody spoke for a while. Then Rowena took the initiative and asked, 'Why, er, do you have...?'

'Badger baiters,' she said simply. 'It's a crime that shouldn't go unpunished.'

'Ah.'

Salazar said, 'Right. Well that's...odd, but works in our favour. If you can get to your tower and retrieve it—'

'I'm good with a sword,' said Richard, helpfully. 'If anyone's got one going spare.'

'Very useful,' said Salazar; trace of doubt only slightly apparent. 'Very, very—'

'I've got a plan,' said Rowena, quietly. She stared straight ahead, unmoving, as if worried that any slight action would disturb it.

Salazar sighed. 'Right, if people don't stop interrupting me with important suggestions, I'm never going to be able to claim strategic victory on this one. Ravenclaw? And quickly, before my knackers drop off.'

Concentrating intently, Rowena began, 'First, we need swords...'

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They called him a Sorting Hat. There was a reason for it.

In times of turmoil, out he popped. Couple of solutions here, bit of sage advise over there, and a smattering of ambiguous wisdom to boot.

He turned back to face the castle, but his view was obscured by the thickness of the forest. He sighed. It'd been a swell ride, yes, but the big wide world was calling. Ale. Whores. Wimmin. Delectable pastries. You only live once, even if it's for upwards of a thousand years at a time.

'Ach,' he said, to his companion, 'I'll miss that place, I will.'

The basilisk hissed politely in response, slithering through the woods at a leisurely pace. Hat rode upon the creature's smooth, flat head, speaking in a refined parseltongue. There was a reason they called him a Sorting Hat.

'So, pal. Why d'ye think it is ye have such a dysfunctional relationship with muggle-borns?...Aye?...Well then, it sounds tae me ye's too passive. Ye can't live yon life just trying to please other people, nae matter what they tell ye...'

000000000000000000000000

Salazar's footsteps echoed loudly as he stepped into the entrance hall, boots colliding with the vast stone floor. Nothing stirred, save for the occasional movement of staircases high above his head. Torches flickered against the walls, dangerously close to huge tapestries of the Malfoy family crest. Salazar was already fed up of seeing it.

A brighter light shone from the open doorway of the Great Hall. Echoes of speech escaped to him, but the words were lost in the journey. He sighed. 'Right-o. Once more unto the breach, dear cockheads.'

He entered the Great Hall, and closed the door after him.

Ten eyes stared at him in total, and three wands immediately pointed at his chest. He walked towards them with a shrug, halting a little outside punching distance.

Xavier's mouth curled into a smooth, hard grin. His ice-blue eyes twinkled. 'William,' he said, half-bowing. 'So nice of you to join us.'

Salazar felt that now would be the time to quip elegantly. Instead he said, 'My name's Salazar, you stupid bastard. What the hell have you done with the place? We had drapes and pillows and elegant furnishing before you came along. Now it's all tapestries and faecal matter. Honestly.'

He examined the room with a sweeping glance: the already cavernous hall now looked larger than ever, devoid of all furniture save two armchairs. The long wooden tables had been pushed to the corner in a fractured heap.

So, strategically, how was he balanced? - one psychotic Malfoy to his left, wand ready; one psychotic Sophia straight ahead, lounging elegantly (wand pointed somewhere around his left testicle); one psychotic ex-girlfriend to the right of him, aiming for the other one. And – good lord, what was Sophia using for a chair?

'Malfoy,' he said, disbelievingly, 'do correct me if I'm wrong, but you appear to have our beloved cousin Godric on the floor wearing nothing but thermal under-trousers and a liberal coating of baby oil.'

Xavier didn't reply, but shot Sophia a look that said, "I _told_ you he'd say something".

Salazar leant over, head angled, and said, 'Who else? Anatiddle? Huh.' He stood up. 'Well, I admire your sense of interior decoration, Xavier. You really know how to pick a theme and run with it. I assume that MalfoyLand will be all weasels and homoerotic bondage?'

'Shut up,' Xavier spat, edging half a step closer.

Salazar stepped back, raising his hands defensively. 'Hey, I have nothing against it myself. My only concern is student welfare. Speaking of which—'

'They're safe,' said Heather. He did not turn to look at her; Xavier's wand was presently the most threatening issue. 'Every single one tucked away safely in bed.'

'Occasionally with the aid of binding charms,' Sophia added cheerfully.

'Terrific,' said Salazar, without feeling. He clapped his hands together loudly, and began to slowly pace around his cousins, looking nowhere in particular. They didn't twitch; simply followed him with their eyes, glares and – most importantly – wands. He thought he could see a glint of metal beneath Xavier's cloak, but couldn't be sure. 'So,' he said conversationally, strolling around them. 'This is nice.'

'You know why you're here, William,' said Xavier, hand steady. 'The time has come.'

'Has it, indeed. Seems to _me_ that it's only come because you've said so, and I'm fairly sure that's not how these things work.'

'We grow impatient with you,' said Sophia, through a yawn. 'You've become really boring recently.'

'Many apologies.'

'We feel that a more direct intervention is called for.'

'Hm.' He returned to his original spot. 'More direct than sending me a man-eating snake, for instance? Bloody imbeciles. It's _you, _isn't it?' He pointed between Xavier and Sophia, grand champions of Synchronised Smirking. 'You're what he cursed me with. Turning up whenever things are going well to nag me into warfare.'

Xavier shrugged, smirk unwavering. 'As it transpires.'

'But what,' he continued, as if Xavier had never spoken, 'I wonder, were you hoping to achieve with this? You can't convince me to fight Godders and/or destroy all mudbloods, and you obviously can't kill me because that would nullify the point of the entire exercise. So what is it? Intimidation by means of male nipple exposure? Because I'm certainly comfortable enough with that side of my sexuality to—'

'Oh Salazar,' Heather interrupted, impatiently. 'There are other things we can hurt to make you fight for us.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Anatiddle? Be my guest. Never did like the man very much.'

'How about your girlfriend?' she challenged, waving her wand mockingly. If there was a mocking way in which to wave a wand, this was it. 'Your silly, giggly, fat-hipped girlfriend? We know she's in the castle, Salazar. She won't be too hard to find. And her stupid brother. And her stupid friend.'

Salazar never looked at her, but sighed exasperatedly. 'Well, at least she doesn't have a flat bottom.'

'_I DO NOT—!_'

'Anyway, your plan's only any good in theory.' He held up a thin finger knowledgeably. 'For you see – ta-daaa – _I'm not actually Salazar_.'

At this, he had them. Wand hands wavered. Brows knotted. Finally, Xavier demanded: 'What?'

'Not Salazar,' he repeated, with a careless shrug. 'Good, isn't it?'

Xavier charged forward, grabbing the Salazar-alike roughly by his shirt. 'Who the hell are you then?!'

'Hey hey!' he shouted, wriggling free. 'Watch the shirt. I've got to get it back to him in an hour.'

Xavier scowled, and held his wand at Salazar's throat. The skin around it burned red immediately. 'Polyjuice potion,' he snarled. 'Is that what you're seriously suggesting?'

'You'd be amazed at the roominess of Hufflepuff's bloomers,' he said, flinching. 'They're practically a handbag.'

The wand dug further into his neck. Puce and scarlet bruising crawled across his skin. 'And she just so happens to carry polyjuice potion with her?!'

'You've never met her, clearly.' His voice strained now. 'We're talking about a girl who just happens to list a sword among her personal possessions. _With spikes on._'

The wand was whipped away. Xavier turned smartly on his heel, expression disguised.

Sophia looked flustered, now. 'Xavier,' she mumbled, sitting up, 'Xavier, if they have weapons—'

'Shut up,' he hissed.

'Of course,' said Salazar, tentatively touching his burn, 'I could be lying. No real way to be sure, is there? I mean you could kill me, of course, but what if I _am _Salazar? Or you could wait an hour for the potion to wear off, but by that time the Real Salazar could have done any number of heroic deeds. Either way, you should know there are three other people in this castle working very intently on stopping you, freeing Godders and having nothing to do with your stupid prophecy.'

'That's not how prophecies work!' snarled Xavier, turning back to him. 'Nor curses – you idiot – you never learn, you despicable traitor—'

'Sorry,' said Salazar, with a theatrical hand to his ear, 'who are you talking to? Me? Or Salazar?'

Xavier's hand twitched for the sword beneath his cape, but Heather's hand stopped him, touching his shoulder lightly. 'Stop,' she hissed, urgently. 'You've waited almost ten years; you can wait a while longer.'

'Don't kill him,' Sophia agreed, gravely. 'It could end badly. Even if—'

'Yes.' His hand fell back by his side, grasping his wand. 'Yes. Quite right.' He cleared his throat, returning something of his genteel demeanour. 'I'll find them all; I'll bring them here. Then I think it should be fairly obvious who is expendable._ Obfirmo._'

'Sorry?' said Salazar.

'Nobody leaves this castle. Not through the doors, not through the windows.'

'Ah,' he said, scratching his beard thoughtfully. 'That's what it means.'

To Sophia and Heather, Xavier said, 'Watch him carefully. No spells unless you absolutely have to.' He looked Salazar briefly up and down, visibly disgusted. 'We want him as strong as possible.' And with that he left, slamming the door after him.

As the dust settled, Salazar grinned broadly. 'Whew-whee! Lot of fun, that man.' He sauntered to Sophia and Heather's stronghold, pulling up Xavier's freshly vacated seat. 'Mind if I sit here?'

'No quick movements,' said Heather, warningly. 'I'll hex off your kneecaps.'

'Oh, Heather,' he said with a sigh, plopping into the chair. 'Whatever happened to you, I wonder.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Ignore him,' said Sophia, tracing shapes in the air. 'He's just trying to distract you.'

Salazar nodded. 'Yep. That's my plan.'

Heather scowled. 'Where's your wand?'

'I didn't bring it.'

'Why not?'

He folded his legs under himself, and said, 'Because I'm not going to fight anyone. Not you, not Malfoy, and certainly not old _schweinhund_ here.'

'Pardon?!' said Sophia, hand at her breast.

'Not you. Gryffindor.'

'You'll fight,' said Heather, through gritted teeth. 'It is Written.'

Salazar shrugged. 'Yeeeah, well, so is "Heather Bettany sucks toes for sickles", it doesn't necessarily make it true. In the girl's bathroom,' he added, 'third floor.'

'You utter—'

'_Calm_, girl,' Sophia interjected, loudly. 'Leave Salazar alone. And of _course_ you're Salazar,' she added, as he opened his mouth to object. 'You couldn't be anybody else. All that polyjuice nonsense? Tut tut, William. You hath played mother for a moleskin.'

Salazar grinned. 'So why did you let Xavier waddle off to look for me?'

'Can't hurt. Better to have your little friends dead than wandering around, making trouble. When they're gone, you and Godric can get to it, uninterrupted.' She patted her Godric-chair amiably. 'Such a shame. He's a comfy little sofa.'

Salazar examined his nails. 'Ah, yes,' he said, 'but now you're assuming that I'm working alone in here.'

Sophia's mouth twitched slightly. Heather looked quickly around the empty room, holding her wand tighter. 'What do you mean?' Sophia demanded.

'Well,' said Salazar, 'think about it. Everyone has a talent, don't they? Rowena may not be a dab hand with a Victoria sponge cake, as many-a burnt eyebrow will testify, but she has her practical uses.' He brushed the creases from his shirt and said, 'Transfiguration, for example. Top of the class in transfiguration, three years running.'

Sophia stood up, slowly. She held her wand at face height, so tightly that the tip glowed green.

'You're bluffing,' said Heather, eyes darting wildly nonetheless.

Salazar smiled. 'It's a possibility, of course. Wouldn't be the first time. But just think – if it _isn't..._she could be anything, couldn't she? A mouse. A flag. A woodlouse.' From the pile of broken furniture came a loud clatter. Salazar sighed. 'A great big clumsy idiot.'

It happened in a matter of seconds: Sophia and Heather whipped around to face the heap of furniture, wands poised, and all of a sudden Rowena was _behind _them, and shouting something suspiciously like "boo-yah!", and whacking Heather on the back of the head with her wand. Sophia turned to find Salazar's wand held at her nose, and beyond that, the rest of Salazar. He grinned.

Heather crumpled to the floor, unconscious and without a mark on her body. Rowena stood over her, looking rather exhilarated.

'I strongly suggest,' said Salazar, 'that you drop your wand. Capiche?'


	19. Chapter 19: Thermal

**Chapter Nineteen: Thermal**

'I forget,' said Helga, mid-yawn, 'is it early morning, or late night?'

Richard gave her a sideways glance. 'What, now?'

'Mm.' She stretched extravagantly. 'I'm sleepy.'

They were sat on a staircase, legs dangling over the edge as it grated gracelessly against the walls and flew in the direction of Hufflepuff tower. Pebbles and plaster showered down around them, causing the portraits to complain.

Helga thought briefly how wonderful it was to work in a castle where the above description was both logical and accurate.

Richard stared at her. Helga lowered her arms. 'What?' she demanded. 'You're putting me off my stretch.'

'How can you yawn at a time like this?' he demanded, incredulously. 'We're effectively playing bait for a couple of wand-wielding racial supremacists!'

'Well, I'm sleepy. You do realise that you've only been in this castle for two days, yes? And during that time I have had very, very little sleep.'

'Ah,' he said, raising an authoritative finger, 'that's restlessness, that is. It's one of the first signs.'

'Of what?'

'You're inevitable descent towards giving me another cheeky snog.' He swung his legs cheerfully. 'Just give it time.'

Helga gave a doubtful, 'Hm.'

'Ah, please?'

'How can you think about snogging at a time like this?' she demanded, more teasing than sincere.

'Because I've only been in the castle for two days, and during that time you've given me two very, very cheeky snogs,' he replied, proudly. 'Besides which, if I'm thinking of anything at all it's probably snogging. Or trousers.'

'Trousers?'

'Really nice trousers.'

'Hm.' She let her smile settle as the staircase ground to a halt, but didn't immediately stand up. Instead she waved her arms around, as if swatting invisible flies, and said, 'I'm just starting to feel a bit...sloppy. Weird-feeling. You know.'

'Because you're tired?'

'Mm.' She shuffled uncomfortably. 'Everything's a bit unreal. Odd. Dreamy.'

'That'll be me again, I'm afraid,' he said, clambering to his feet. 'I have that effect on women your age.' He held a hand out for her, and smiled his crumpled smile. 'I daresay you'll get used to it.'

Helga took his hand, and allowed herself to be dragged to her feet. She was vaguely aware that the move should have involved dignity and decorum, but couldn't be bothered at present. 'Right,' she said, once upright, 'this way to the Hufflepuff armory.'

She led him the short distance down her appropriate corridor - well-aware of the potential for euphemism there - until they reached a very small, round, yellow door. A black H formed the door handle, and rattled slightly against the wood.

Richard stared.

'What?' said Helga, uncomfortably.

'I'm sorry,' said Richard, 'I didn't realise I was approaching Bag End.'

'Shut up,' she said, mildly.

'Yes, Mr Frodo.'

'Shut up. And if one looks at you, make sure to hold it's gaze.'

'Sorry?'

The door swung open. Richard had to bend double to get through, and when he straightened up he found himself facing nine bare-torsoed young children growling at him. Some swung from furnishings. They were all painted with white and black badger markings.

One of them barked.

'Oh, shush,' said Helga, fondly, 'it's alright, all of you - Malcolm! Put that spear down, I mean it young man!'

'Good Lord,' said Richard.

Helga beamed. 'Aren't they delightful? My little Hufflepufflies.'

The beady, squinting eyes remained glued to Richard. He decided the best idea would be to hide behind Helga, and did so. 'Ah,' he said, after a while, 'this is the...common room, is it?'

'Yes,' said Helga, fondly. 'They're playing Warriors.'

'Badger Warriors!' cried Malcolm, spear aloft.

'Badger Warriors!' Helga squeaked. 'How cute! Ooh, you're all doing so very well, boys and girls. Let's see, what have I got in here for you...' She searched briefly through her layers of skirt, eventually pulling out a squashed packet of biscuits. 'Here we go, there's enough for two each in here. You be good!' She tossed the biscuits into the centre of the common room, where it was promptly torn to shreds. Over the ensuing clamor, she called, 'And remember what I said about that nasty man and his crazy lady-friend, children! Disarm on sight, shoot to wound! Thank you! Come on, Richard.'

Richard followed her upstairs with his back to the wall. Only when her office door shut after them did he allow himself to exhale.

Helga smiled. 'Aren't they cuties? Honestly, sometimes when I look it them it makes me want to carve my own face off, they're just so adorable.'

Richard offered a high-pitched giggle.

Helga's office was a positive den of tranquillity. All was neatly ordered, filed, stacked and alphabetically categorised. Plants were watered, doilies were ironed and coasters were set at perfect right-angles. It was the second-most unnerving thing Richard had witnessed, on what was now a rapidly expanding list. He shook himself.

'Helga-'

'This way,' she said, vanishing into her bedroom. Richard glanced over his shoulder, and quickly followed her in.

Things continued in a disturbingly-neat manner.

'Righty-ho,' said Helga, drawing the curtains closed. 'Let's give it about five minutes, shall we? That'll give them plenty of time to send someone looking.' She yawned again, and sat on the edge of her mattress. 'I just hope it's Sophia. I reckon we could take her quite easily.'

Richard said, 'Anyone who knits dust covers for their books is an incredibly sinister human being, do you know that?'

'Only the important ones,' she said, defensively.

'And I'm not much for fisticuffs, as it happens.'

'No?'

'I'm more of a sprinter. You know. Short-distances.' He pointed at his chest. 'That's me.'

'Could you run a short distance carrying one girl and a lot of underskirt?'

'Well, you'd probably have to lose the underskirts.'

Helga cocked an eyebrow. Richard frowned.

He said, 'That genuinely didn't sound as perverted in my head. Sorry.'

'I see.' She yawned again. 'Are you going to sit down? My bed's very comfortable.'

Richard sat, awkwardly.

'Incidentally,' she added, as the mattress creaked under their shared weight, 'that wasn't intended as a sordid come-on.'

'You've made that quite clear, yes,' said Richard, shuffling away from her in the direction of the headboard. 'You don't have to worry about that, my dear.'

'Careful.'

'Ha, yes,' he said, leaning back comfortably. He closed his eyes. 'Careful. That's what everybody says. Mind how you go. Don't waste your money. Don't travel far. Don't spend a whole year of your life hopelessly in love with a girl from the travelling circus, and especially don't ask her to marry you because she'll inevitably run off with a firm-thighed stable lad it transpires she's been knocking off since before you were even part of the scenery. And then what? You're twenty-three, homeless, wandless, penniless, malnourished, and suddenly devoid of the charm you've depended on throughout your adult life and unable to attract the first girl to truly intrigue you in many years. Hah. That's where careful comes in, I'll tell you that for a bag of sugar.'

'Oh. Er.' She cleared her throat. 'I just meant, literally, be careful. You're sitting on my swords.'

'Ah.'

For a moment, neither spoke. Helga winced at the inevitable line of conversation that was to follow.

Then Richard said, 'You keep swords under your pillow?'

'Maybe.'

'Good God, woman.'

'It's good to have them handy!' she insisted.

'From what? Vagabonds scaling the twelve stories up to your bedroom window? Spiders? '

'Sort-of!'

'Good Lord! You peculiar woman.' He shook his head, but didn't move the swords. 'Bloody hell. Just tell me if I stab myself.'

'Er...OK. Will do, Richard.' She coughed. Bed felt very, very inviting. Everything felt unreal; everything felt dreamlike. Adrenaline, she thought. That should be kicking in at this point, surely. Mad people on the lose; castle seized; friends in peril; life at stake. Yep. She should definitely be feeling a kick of life, any minute now.

God she was peckish.

'Sorry?' said Richard, one eye opening.

Helga looked around. 'What?'

'You just said something.'

'Did I?'

'Yes,' he said, but now he sounded uncertain. 'I'm fairly sure you just said "what do you mean?", followed by "God I'm peckish".'

Helga blinked. 'Did I? Oh.'

'Yes.' He sat up. 'What do you mean, what do I mean?'

'Er,' said Helga, uncertainly. 'Well, I suppose...I suppose I mean, what do you mean, I..."intrigue" you?'

It was Richard's turn to blink. He said, 'Did I say that?'

'Yes. When you went off on one about a travelling circus and firm thighs.'

'Ah,' said Richard. 'Ah.' He cleared his throat. 'I mean that, in the last two days, we've been forcibly bound together in a potting shed, robbed at wand-point, pursued by a giant snake, planned the storming of a large castle, interrogated a hat and kissed twice. On top of which, I've discovered that you encourage children to paint themselves like badgers, keep swords under your pillow and store generous packets of biscuits in your underskirts. And in all instances I've found you to be utterly charming, delightful and just a little bit frightening.' He sniffed. ' Rather a lot frightening, actually.'

'Oh.'

'But I quite like that.'

'Um.' Helga felt the blush in her collar bone. She coughed. 'Oh, OK.'

'Indeed.'

'Thanks for, er, clearing that up.'

'And I can understand,' he continued, deciding he might as well go for broke now he'd started, 'that I'm not at my, ah, physical peak at present, but you have to understand that I went a long time without eating, bathing or sleeping.'

'Richard-'

'And I realise that now isn't really the best time to be speaking so frankly on matters of the internal organs, but seeing as we both may die soon it seemed only appropriate.'

'Richard-'

'So, Helga Bjorn Hufflepuff,' he said, leaving the bed and dropping to one knee before her, 'I would like to take this moment, in the presence of your geometrically-aligned tea cosy, to ask: would you like to go out for a drink with me?'

Helga immediately jumped to her feet, eyes screwed shut in concentration, and yelled: 'Richard Ravenclaw! I can't bloody decide anything until you cut your hair or grown a beard or at least start to wear a more manly blouse, do you understand me?'

Richard took a step back, which is difficult to do when you're on one knee. He spluttered slightly. 'A...a manly blouse, did you say?'

'You're a very attractive man, Richard! But I swear to god, you look like a skinny, manly-jawed version of your sister sometimes, and THIS IS ALL INCREDIBLY CONFUSING!'

Silence descended. Helga took some deep breaths.

Richard cleared his throat delicately, and rose to his feet. 'Ah. Yes. I see how that would be strange for you.'

'Thank you!'

Solemnly, he said, 'And if we don't get killed during the liberation of your werewolf ex-lover and my sister's murder-cursed boyfriend, I swear that I will grow a beard.'

'And get a haircut?' she added, weakly.

'First chance I get.'

'Excellent.' She coughed. 'Right.'

'Let's go, er, liberate some prisoners, then.'

00000000000000000000000

'Are you alright?' said Rowena, gesturing to the scarlet burn Malfoy's wand had left across Salazar's neck.

Salazar grinned. 'Why? Do you care?'

'Not a bit,' she replied, smiling.

'Bloody hell,' said Heather, currently body-bound and propped up against a wall. 'Kill me now, would you.'

'Don't be jealous, darling,' said Sophia cooly, bound beside her. 'It doesn't suit your skin tone.'

Rowena nodded. 'It really doesn't.'

'Shut up!' Heather screeched. She rocked against the wall. 'Everybody shut up!'

Salazar assisted Anatole to his feet, then immediately wiped his hand clean on his britches. For once, it wasn't a gesture intended to offend, but a necessary after-effect of touching a man coated in so much baby oil.

'Thanks,' said Antole, uncomfortably. He stretched, and his nipples glistened.

Rowena looked away quickly and coughed.

Salazar said, 'I say this as literally and seriously as possible: don't mention it. Also put a shirt on,' he added, looking disapprovingly at Rowena. 'You'll cause accidents.'

'Right,' Anatole mumbled, stepping around on shaky legs. 'Right. Shirt.' He milled around for a minute like a new-born dear, before eventually locating the missing item behind the pile of tables. 'I'm afraid they took my wand.'

'Don't worry,' said Salazar. 'Tonight we fight as muggles.'

'Except me,' Rowena pointed out, twirling her wand between her fingers.

'Except Ravenclaw,' said Salazar. 'Incidentally, I don't suppose you know the counter-spell to "obfirmo", do you?'

'Unobfirmo,' said a little voice. Salazar followed it.

'Ah,' he said, 'Godders, old man. Didn't realise they'd left you able to speak.'

Godric was still on his hands on knees, wearing only thermal underwear and oh god so much oil. 'It's unobfirmo,' he repeated. 'It's just like the jellylegs jinx.'

'Unjellify?' said Salazar, nose wrinkling. 'Really?'

'Would I seriously by lying to you in this position?'

'Ah, righty-ho. Ravenclaw?'

Rowena shrugged. 'Unobfirmo!' A quiet metallic clang seemed to echo through the castle as every door and window unlocked.

Anatole said, 'Has anyone seen my trousers?'

'No time for that,' said Salazar. 'Your job is to get the kiddy-winks out.'

'Body-bind charms,' Sophia reminded him, in a sing-song voice.

'Take Heather's wand,' he added, as Rowena obediently threw it in his direction. 'If you run into Xavier, do us a favour and bash his head in with something.'

Anatole gulped. 'With no trousers on?'

'Preferably.'

He nodded. 'Right.' He made heroically for the door, but stopped as he reached Rowena. Hesitantly, he said, 'If I should die, you should know that I've always held you in exceptionally high regard.'

Rowena nodded. 'I know.'

'Ah.' He shuffled uncomfortably. 'Did Professor Hufflepuff tell-?'

'Yep.'

'Biatch,' he muttered, and stormed out.

Salazar strolled towards Godric, watched - as always - by Sophia's dark eyes. 'You,' he said, wagging a finger in his direction, 'are going to find this really hilarious-'

'Let me the bloody balls out of here,' Godric growled. In his case, the growl was rather literal.

Rowena winced. 'The thing is, Godric, we had a little talk, and we think it's probably best that you, er...' Godric glared at her, as best he could from his prone position. 'That you, er, remain as you are.'

'What?'

Sophia cackled

Salazar beamed. 'I told you it was hilarious!'

'Now, don't be mad,' said Rowena, hurrying over to him, 'it's purely for your own benefit.'

'How?'

'Well,' she attempted, growing flustered, 'because certain people amongst our company are here to make sure that you and Salazar fight to the death, as per the terms of the curse, and our belief is that you being bound and harmless like this will prove an effective counter-measure.' She smiled weakly. 'See?'

Godric opened and closed his mouth several times. Finally he managed, 'There's a curse?'

'Oh,' she said. 'Didn't you know about that?'

'No I didn't bloody know about that!'

She glared at Salazar. 'You didn't tell him about the curse?'

Salazar shrugged. 'I thought he already knew.' He looked to Sophia and Heather, and said, 'Didn't you tell him?'

'I didn't tell him,' said Sophia, apparently rather offended, 'I assumed you'd have done it ages ago-'

Godric said, 'What the hell is the curse?'

'Oh, it's nothing really,' said Salazar, waving his hand dismissively, 'but you remember Grandpa Cray...?'

Salazar explained, as vaguely and flippantly as possible. Godric gawped.

Eventually he managed, 'You bloody bastard.'

Salazar grinned. 'I know, right?'

0000000000000000

Anatole ducked and dodged enthusiastically along the corridors, his back pressed against the wall as he headed towards the Slytherin dungeons. It served the double purpose of stretching out his cramp and taking his mind away from his current lack of trouser.

However, no amount of militant squatting was enough to distract him from the thought of a cosh around the head, or the green glow of a wand, or a sword at the throat-

Golly he was cold.

Water dripped noisily onto the dungeon floor. The damp on the cobbles squelched underfoot. If only he had no principles, he thought glumly. Then he could just snap open a damsel's jugular and be away. A little black under the eyes, a brooding stare, a pair of chiseled cheek bones and perhaps a touch of glitter...My god, he'd be knee-deep in underskirt.

Not his, obviously.

Preferably.

Ah well.

Time to save some lives and that.

000000000000

'Ravenclaw?'

'What?'

'Are you asleep?'

Rowena opened her eyes. 'No?' she suggested.

Salazar kicked her lightly in the thigh. 'You can leave if you like.'

'No,' she said, with certainty. 'Just remind me where I am. Kidding,' she added quickly, looking up to see his expression. 'I know exactly where I am, I'm...'

Er...let's see now. I'm on the floor, in a position that can only be described as slumped. That's not good, for a start. Great Hall? Still? Damn that misleading dream about a bed made of kittens and cakes.

Oh yes.

Heather and Sophia are still bound, still propped against the wall: in Heather's case rocking violently, in Sophia's case humming happily. Godric is still oiled and in thermal underwear, but now placed in a more comfortable position: on his back, with his arms and legs pinned together. Alright, a slightly more comfortable position. But definitely one that could in no way be interpreted as a fighting stance or cause any harm against Salazar.

Unless someone picked him up and walloped him of course.

But that probably wouldn't happen.

Still no sign of Richard and Helga, who should - by now - be working on freeing the staff and returning with enough swords to make even Godric feel emasculated. Assuming Xavier didn't find them first of course-

But it's fine, it's fine. Helga knows her way around the castle better than anyone. She'll be back. She'll be fine. She'll be carrying Richard over her shoulder, most likely.

And then...

And then we wait. Xavier comes back, Salazar lays down the rules. No fighting. No killing muggle-borns. None of that.

Active pacifism.

Perfect.

'Are you entirely sure this is going to work?' she asked, clambering gracelessly to her feet.

Salazar nudged her in the ribs. 'Speak a bit louder, will you? I don't think the enemy fully heard your dubiousness.'

'Oh, enemy,' she said, waving her hand dismissively. 'We're meant to be actively not fighting. You shouldn't call them - what in hell have you done to your face?'

Salazar maintained a haughty gaze, but looked slightly sheepish around the mouth. He'd painted two black stripes under his eyes, and knotted a length of fabric around his forehead.

'What have you done?' Rowena demanded again.

'It's...war paint,' he said uncertainly. Then he puffed up his chest, and repeated, 'War paint. Battle wear. You know how it is, wench.'

She stared a little closer at the fabric tied around his head. Aghast, she demanded, 'Is that the hem of my underskirt?'

'You were asleep!'

'That doesn't make it less weird!'

'I wanted to get into the Zone,' he said, defensively. 'I have no weapon. I feel emasculated. Love you?' he offered, weakly.

Rowena sighed. 'I'm going to overlook all that just happened if you later assure me that it was all a bad dream. OK?'

Salazar began glumly wiping away the face paint. 'Alright.'

'Now: are you sure this is going to work?'

'Not really,' said Salazar. He wiped his blackened hands on his trousers. 'But I don't see what other options they have. If they kill me or Godric, we can't fight and that ruins their game. If they keep us alive, there's always a chance that if they wait around long enough we might eventually get round to it.'

'Right,' said Rowena, nodding. 'And what if they kill me?'

'That would be incredibly unfortunate.'

'Or Helga or Richard or Anatole?'

'That would be a sliding scale of unfortunate.'

She nudged him in the ribs. 'Shush.'

'That's why I think you ought to leave,' he said, with slightly more sincerity. 'Now, if possible.'

Rowena shook her head. 'I'm not going without the others. Not until the castle's cleared.'

He sighed. 'You know that swords aren't very useful against wands, don't you?'

'They're just-in-cases. For Richard and Helga. Until they're safely away.'

'You should really go with them.'

'I refuse to take orders from someone with a piece of underskirt around his head.'

He sniffed. 'Touche. Can't you at least hide, in case he surprises us?'

'Can't you at least remove the lace?'

'Not really.'

'Then I'm staying,' she said, definitely. 'You need me.'

Salazar stared at her incredulously. 'As soon as this is over, I'm going to snog your face off.'

Rowena snorted.

He grinned. 'Twice.'

Then the doors exploded.


	20. Chapter 20: Tricks

**Chapter Twenty: Tricks**

_Ten minutes earlier:_

Xavier Malfoy was mad.

It had often been said.

Now the anger propelled him, white hot, down the corridors. This was it. He'd gone too far. You spend your entire life chasing after one pathetic, cowardly worm - plotting, following, killing for him, for the word of your only grandfather. To make life happen as the gods ordained it, to keep the world in balance - and what do you get?

Ingratitude! Insolence! His one ambition in life - the only purpose he'd ever known - and _he _thought he was going to stop him-

000

'Come on, Mr Ferrybridge,' said Helga, impatiently tugging at his elbow. 'Let's get you out-'

'I'm not ready,' he said, ancient head resting on his chest. 'It's not even lunchtime.'

'I'll make you a slap-up meal as soon as we get out of here, Mr Ferrybridge, honestly - are they out?' she added, as Richard reappeared in the staff room.

He nodded. 'Headed towards Hogsmeade in a hurry, I can tell you.' He squatted in front of Mr Ferrybridge, and said, 'No luck, eh?'

Mr Ferrybridge was one hundred and seven years old, and had a tendency to die briefly every couple of weeks. He was also an incredibly highly-regarded expert on the study of ancient runes, and inexplicably on the Hogwarts payroll.

Mrs Lackshee, the games mistress, stood by the door, shaking her head. 'It's no good, old gel,' she told Helga, who patted the old man's head encouragingly, 'words aren't going to shift him. What's say we get a grip under each armpit and drag the bugger out, eh?'

'I really don't think that's a good idea,' said Helga, desperately. 'Come on, Mr Ferrybridge, please move - we're all in terrible danger.'

'Terrible danger!' Mrs Lackshee cried, tossing her brunette curls haughtily. 'You bring the blighter to me, I'll show him what's what.'

'You're really not helping,' said Richard.

'I'll get him in a headlock faster than you can say "let go of my head",' she continued, slapping her thigh. She added a, 'By jove!' for good measure.

'Look,' said Helga, 'I'd really appreciate it if you could go to Hogsmeade with the others where it's safe-'

'Safe, indeed!'

'_Yes_, safe indeed! Come on, Mr Ferrybridge, please move-'

Richard lowered his voice to say, 'You know, he doesn't look very heavy. We could probably grab a leg each, and-'

'They'll snap off!' Helga cried, now desperately attempting to push his chair across the floor. 'He's about three thousand years old!'

Mr Ferrybridge finally looked up. He said, 'What kind of a slap-up meal?'

Helga let go of the chair. 'Er,' she said, 'I don't know. What would you like?'

Mr Ferrybridge considered his options. Richard smiled at him encouragingly.

Finally he said, 'What are the choices?'

'Er...pie?' Helga offered. 'I can do you a brilliant pie, sweet or savoury?'

'Hm,' said Mr Ferrybridge, doubtfully.

'Or sausages! I can do some amazing things with pig innards, Mr F - spiced, plain, vegetarian?'

'Hm...'

'Or a stew? Rabbit? Lamb? I'll tell you what I can do for you Mr F, it's called a Hufflepuff Half-Dozen Stew. Six animals in one pot, Mr Ferrybridge, just think about that!'

'With gravy?'

'So much gravy, Mr Ferrybridge!' she cried, shaking him gently by the shoulders. 'More gravy than you could ever hope to slurp!'

He squinted appraisingly. 'What about a buffet?'

'THE BIGGEST SODDING BUFFET YOU'VE SEEN IN YOUR LIFE, MR FERRYBRIDGE! WITH TINY SAUSAGES ON STICKS WITH CHEESE AND FRUIT WE HAVEN'T EVEN DISCOVERED YET, HOW DOES THAT SOUND?'

Mr Ferrybridge said, 'Hm...'

Mrs Lackshee slapped her thigh and declared, 'Sod this for a game of soldiers.' In one swift movement she scooped up the boney frame of Mr Ferrybridge and slung him over her shoulder.

Helga and Richard stared on in shock.

Mrs Lackshee said, 'I've known many-a queer fish in my time, and this old devil's a really bad egg. But you, mon ami, are _pukka_. Now let's be off, shall we? Pip pip!'

Mrs Lackshee - and, by extension, Mr Ferrybridge - vanished out of the door.

Richard blinked. 'Does she _exist?_'

Helga stared at the vacant doorway. She managed, 'Good lord.'

He snapped out of it. 'Well, that's all the staff safe. We ought to join them.'

Helga shook her head sadly. 'I don't like the idea of leaving Ro in here.'

Richard placed his hand affectionately on her shoulder. 'Slytherin won't let her come into any danger. And she can handle herself.'

Helga sighed, and stepped away from under his hand. 'How would _you _even know? You weren't exactly around for her adolescence, were you?'

Richard raised his hands defensively. 'Hey, what?'

'_Well_,' she said, by way of conclusion, her fists clenched. Her jaw twitched.

'Helga,' he said gently, looking down at his feet, 'I've told Rowena already - I was a child too, you know, I would never have-'

'I know.'

'If I could change any one thing-'

'I know,' she said again, ruffled feathers settling slightly. She sighed, and began to massage her temples. 'I know, sorry. I'm just tired. Sorry.'

'It's OK,' said Richard, feebly.

For a while, neither spoke. Richard's cheeks had discreetly flushed, and his head suddenly felt too heavy to lift. He tried to meet her eyes. He gave up.

Then a thin, high voice punctuated the silence: 'Er...think we might be in trouble here, what what?'

They both looked to the door.

000

Xavier Slytherin was mad.

It had often been said.

And when he rounded the corner and came face to face with a horse-faced old bag with a nearly-dead bastard slung over his shoulder, his lips had curled with delight.

Not one wand between them.

He stepped out of the shadows and said, '_Ahem_.'

The woman wheeled around, sending the old man's limbs whizzing round with her. She gasped, and began to speak-

'_How would __**you**__ even know? You weren't exactly around for her adolescence, were you?'_

_'Hey, what?'_

The smile spread. He held his wand steady at the old man's back, and said, 'Call them.'

The woman's eyes darted around. She began to step back, but green sparks shot from his wand and into her shoulder, burning the skin. He pointed it back at the man, and said, 'Call them.'

She stared. The man over her shoulder began to sob.

She said, 'Er...think we might be in trouble here, what what?'

For a while, nothing happened. Xavier glanced to the room the voices had come from. No life stirred. No one else spoke.

He said, 'Call them again.'

The woman took a deep breath and, with her eyes closed, screamed, '_It's a trap run away it's a trap!_'

What happened next happened in moments: the tall man he knew as Ravenclaw ran through to him, one awkward sword held high above his head, moving unflinchingly towards him. Xavier's wand was already raised, and it was all too easy: he said a soft _crucio _at his approach, and as he fell Xavier half-caught him, sending his full weight sliding across the floor and into the wall, which he hit with a satisfying crack. His body shook, and his screams continued even as he melted into unconsciousness, and the blood in his mouth turned the yell to a gargle-

He turned just in time to see the short, plump figure in a dark brown cloak and a sword in each hand, screaming and running. He was caught off-guard this time, and barely had time to shift from the swoop of the first sword, which scored a glancing blow on his left arm. He barely felt it, though his shirt was suddenly deep violent red. The other sword came over his head but he caught her arm, simultaneously pushing his wand into her stomach so she screamed as it burnt into her. She managed to club him with a sword handle as she fell, so his vision shook and violet patches appeared before his eyes, but he heard where she fell and pointed his wand steady, certainly-

'_Avada Kedavra!_'

And everything was still.

The woman and the old man had disappeared but, in the light of his new collection, he'd all but forgotten they were ever there. He staggered backwards under the pain in his arm, but a healing charm quickly saw to that. His vision settled.

All was red and motionless. He kicked the girl lightly in the shoulder so she rolled onto her back. He knelt down beside her. Her eyes were still open, staring past him, frightened.

He smiled, brushed the dust from his trousers and, whistling, made his way towards the Great Hall.

He waited outside the doors for a moment, calmly adjusting his hair and buttoning his cuffs. Then, when he was completely ready, he pointed his wand idly at the doors, and they exploded open.

000

For a moment, Rowena and Salazar remained perfectly still, blinking dumbly at the cloud of dust and shattered brickwork. Then a tall, slim figure became visible in the mess, sweeping his fingers elegantly through his white-blonde hair.

Rowena instinctively raised her wand, though Salazar held his arm across her body to stop her.

'Xavier,' he said, once the dust had settled. 'Back so soon?'

'Polyjuice potion,' said Xavier, calmly. 'What an idiotic tale you spin, William.'

'My name's _Salazar._'

'Salazar,' he said, stepping delicately across the rubble and closer towards them, 'is a ridiculous name.' He smiled. 'I much prefer things my own way, you know?'

'I'm picking up on that,' said Salazar.

Rowena was staring straight at him, her forehead crumpled. The way he moved was so calm and contained; so gradual and inevitable. Salazar took a step away from him, until his back was against the wall. Rowena didn't move.

She said, 'Something's wrong.'

'I had plans,' said Xavier - and again, his voice was too steady, too still, and just an octave too high. Ready to splinter. 'I had _marvellous_, _brilliant_ plans, William. And all you had to do was follow one simple order. Just _one kill_, William.'

Salazar shrugged. 'Not really my scene, that business.'

'It wasn't even an order,' he continued, to himself. 'It's a _curse_, for god's sake. An unavoidable inevitability. A sacrifice. Only William Slytherin could argue with the inevitable. All you have to do,' and he lifted a sword slowly, steadily out in front of him, 'all you have to do, for _once_, is show a _little bit of backbone_. Is that so difficult, William?'

Rowena stared at the sword. Her breath caught in her throat. His shoulder was crimson with blood.

Very quietly, she said, 'Where's Helga?'

Xavier turned his gaze to her, for the first time. He smiled. 'Why don't you go and look for her?'

'Rowena,' said Salazar desperately, 'wait-'

She ran.

Once her footsteps had echoed away, Xavier began to swing the sword cheerfully. 'Well, well. I have you alone at last, dear William.'

'Not really,' said Salazar, neither as loudly nor confidently as he would have liked. 'There's still the small matter of our cousins, body-bound and in one case lubricated.'

'And little Heather, of course,' said Xavier, affectionately. He didn't turn to look at her. 'You know I saved the dear thing from an arranged marriage, William? Away from some big brute with a breath like rotting meat?'

Salazar nodded. His mind was reeling. _Something isn't right._ 'Sounds a hoot,' he said.

'That's what I do, you see?' He grinned, and prodded a thumb proudly at his chest. 'I help people. I live for other people. Most importantly, I keep my word.' His teeth flashed behind the smile. 'That's why people like me so much.'

'Ah.' _I should've let Godders go. _'I thought it was your dreamy eyes and toned physique?' _He's going to kill him. He's gone mad. And I've not got a wand._

_This is not exactly your finest hour, Salazar._

'And Sophia,' Xavier continued, as if Salazar had never spoken. 'She was married before she was fourteen years old, William. As you'd know, if you hadn't abandoned us. Oh, the things he did to her...remember, cupcake?' He turned to Sophia grandly, sword held out. She screwed her eyes tightly shut, and began to hum loudly. He returned to Salazar. 'The horrible things, all alone in the dark, when no one could help her...' He turned suddenly to Godric and, in a stage whisper, announced, 'But then she cut him up with an axe and buried him under a tree. And _I_,' he shouted, gesturing grandly to the rafters, '_I_ was there to help her, when no one else cared about the psychotic little bitch!'

'You're a humanist,' said Salazar, 'I see that now. Put down the sword.'

His smile was quick and wolflike. 'Are you scared of me, William? Are you scared I'm going to kill you?'

'I'm scared you're going to hurt...someone,' he said, delicately. 'You need to be careful.'

'Surprise surprise, ladies and gentleman! Mr Slytherin is _scared! _Well, doesn't that make an exciting change? William Slytherin, eleven years old, making promises he can't keep and pissing himself as his dear little cousin gets ripped apart by werewolves-'

'You've gone mad,' said Slytherin, frankly. 'You have absolutely lost your rag, Xavier. Let me help you. Please.'

'Mad?' He seemed to genuinely consider the phrase. 'It's possible. I've had some very late nights.'

'It'll do bad things to a person,' he said, uncertainly, 'sleep deprivation. If you put the sword down, I can-'

'It's just that I hear things,' Xavier said, his voice suddenly hoarse, 'as I'm trying to get to sleep. Do you know what I mean, William? Late at night? The noises?'

Salazar swallowed hard. The sword was being flung around a lot more enthusiastically than he was happy with. 'Yes,' he said, 'all the time. Rats mating, usually. Surprisingly noisy, when you're in a confined space-'

'I hear Cray's voice, whispering. _Make him die, Xavier. Make them all die._' He giggled. 'Do you never get that?'

Salazar shook his head, slowly. All that filled the silence was Sophia's desperate humming.

If he could catch him offguard, even for a moment, to get that sword away - he could take his wand and hold him still, release the others, take him somewhere safe...

'I'm fed up of it,' Xavier announced. 'I'm fed up of that voice. I'm fed up of Sophia.' He lowered his voice suddenly and whispered, 'Do you have any idea how annoying she is, William? She sticks her hands in cadavers and fingerpaints.' His eye twitched. 'Do you have any idea what it's like babysitting that woman?'

'You don't have to,' said Salazar. He hadn't meant for his voice to be so quiet. 'Just stop this. We can fix it.'

'The whispering?'

'Yes.'

'But you don't hear it?'

Salazar shook his head. 'It's just your mind playing tricks, Xavier. That's all.'

'Tricks,' he said, moving closer. 'Tricks. Nasty tricks.' He stopped for a moment. 'Is your plan going the way you expected, William?'

Salazar shook his head. 'Not quite, if I'm honest.'

'And you don't hear it?'

'I don't hear it, Malfoy.'

'It's a shame,' said Xavier, walking slowly, unstoppably closer. 'If you heard it, I wouldn't have to do everything for you. Would I, now?' He looked over to Godric, lying silent and prone across the hall. He was very close. Salazar could see the perspiration under his eyes.

'You can't kill him,' he said, levelly. 'If you kill him, no body wins. No pureblood rebellion, nothing.'

'Could you stop me, William?'

Salazar licked his lips. 'I could try.'

'Do you love her, William?'

Salazar's stopped breathing. 'No.'

'No?'

'No.' He swallowed. 'I mean, for one thing he's my cousin, and he's a bloody ugly bastard at that.'

Xavier grinned. 'You're very funny, William.' He stuck the sword suddenly, deeply into Salazar's lungs: through popping skin and cracking bone and into the rock behind him. His eyes bulged with the shock, and then the blood poured slowly from his mouth.

'Say hello to Cray for me,' said Xavier, softly.


	21. Chapter 21: Cray

**a/n: **I don't usually do this, but, ah...more reviews, please? I live for your love.

**Chapter Twenty-One: Cray**

Salazar woke up.

This was not the expected course of events.

The ground was hard and dark around him, and ever-so-slightly damp. Had there been rain? No - it was winter. It was snowing outside. It couldn't have melted already, and there was no breeze in the air. It felt as warm as his body did. No chill, no draught.

The dungeons, then. It must be the slime of the dungeons. But why so warm? Why so alone?

Who'd crossed his arms over his chest?

He sat up.

'Ah,' said a cheerful voice, somewhere behind him, 'you're up and at 'em at last, I see?'

He turned around. The move took effort. His aches ached.

And a very plump, cheerful, cherubic-looking man was stood behind him, holding what appeared to be a grey, wriggling piece of ham.

This was definitely not the expected course of events.

'What's that?' Salazar demanded, shuffling cautiously away from him.

'This?' said the man, holding the thing aloft. 'Ooh, it's nothing, really. Just a bit of decoration.' He smiled. His rosy cheeks bulged unnervingly. 'I _am _addressing Mr Salazar William Slytherin, yes?'

'Yes,' said Salazar, uncertainly, 'but you're not covering me in meat products.' He climbed, with difficulty, to his feet. He rubbed at his chest. It felt particularly grim. He vaguely remembered doing something to it - it must be bruised, it hurt like hell. He must have walked into something.

A bump that hard, that painful - he would have been winded by it. Right against his lungs.

The man smiled sympathetically. 'I understand your reluctance, Mr Slytherin, but I'm afraid protocol is protocol and I can't let you stay unless you put this on.'

'I don't _want_ to stay,' he said. He tried to look around. The act was more of a challenge than he expected. All around him was grey - dark grey, like grey, patches of black, dabs of white. He spun around slowly. The grey seemed to stretch out into eternity, but as he turned he saw _things_, moving, in the corner of his eye-

He spun around quicker. Figures, trees, animals...Always at the corner of his eye, like a memory he couldn't quite grasp-

'Look,' he said eventually, halting his cycle in front of the cherubic man, 'was I terribly drunk last night? Did I join a cult?'

The man chuckled. It sounded like every affectionate uncle that ever there was. 'Oh no, Mr Slytherin, nothing quite so sinister as that.'

'Then stop trying to cover me with meat!' he demanded, as a grey tendril floated smoothly towards him. He batted it away impatiently. 'Just tell me where I am, would you? I have duties and responsibilities and...things, though god help me I can't remember what they are.'

The man nodded comfortingly. 'It's a pain like that, isn't it Mr Slytherin? Very confusing process, this one. Hopefully with a bit of teamwork, we'll have you sorted and happy and on your way in just one jiffy, eh?'

'_Jiffy?_' he repeated desperately. 'I don't even know what - look, just tell me where I am, would you?' He wasn't exactly annoyed. That was the strange thing. The mere attempt at annoyance exhausted him, like he was trying to life a weight beyond his strength. He felt tired. Very tired.

The man shook his head. 'Oh, Mr Slytherin. I'm ever so sorry. What must you think of me, eh? Not very much for customer service, I'd venture.' His blue eyes gleamed. 'Well, I think the best way to explain your current situation, as it were, vis-a-vis this "where am I?" business, would be to ask you very kindly to look down at your pinky-poo feet.'

Salazar stared at him. The man stared sweetly back.

He looked down, slowly, at his feet. Another strange thing: he had no shoes on.

A stranger thing still: the words _Salazar William Slytherin, dates unknown, Rest Peacefully_ carved neatly into the grey, damp floor.

He said, 'Huh.'

Another moment or so later, he said, 'Would you look at that.'

The smiling man patted him gently on the arm. 'Bit of a shock, Mr Slytherin? I'd imagine so, yes. Yes yes. Poor lamb.'

Salazar wiggled his toes. He didn't look up. Eventually he said, 'I should probably be feeling an overwhelming sensation of guilt or remorse or horror or something, shouldn't I?'

'Mm,' he said, nodding encouragingly. 'A lot of people try that, yes. I don't mind stepping to the side while you drop to your knees and shout _NO!_, if you like? A lot of people try that,' he added, helpfully.

'Huh.' He looked up. 'Does that help?'

'Not really.'

'Hm.' He blinked a few times, experimentally. With each blink, just before his eyelids closed, he caught the briefest glimpse of that other world: the people and trees and colour. 'OK,' he said, eventually. 'Let's start easy. What's your name?'

'Elspeth,' said the man.

'That's a very unusual name,' said Salazar.

Elspeth cocked an eyebrow. 'Something about a pot and a kettle, Mr Slytherin.'

'Right,' Salazar agreed. 'OK. And I'm...dead, am I?'

Elspeth smiled comfortingly. 'In a manner of speaking, Mr Slytherin, yes.'

'Right.' He cleared his throat. 'And this is...where I'm buried, is it?'

He chuckled. 'Oh no, Mr Slytherin. This is just a matter of filing.'

'Filing?'

'You're in the...next place,' he said, delicately. 'The one you go to after you die.'

Salazar looked around again. He ventured wildly, 'Wizard hell?'

Elspeth laughed. It was like the bubbling of water rushing over stones. 'Oh, Mr Slytherin, you really are a card. No, no, nothing like that. It's more of a...well, what's your religion, Mr Slytherin?'

'Er,' said Salazar.

'Let's just call it a sort of...inbetweeny place,' he said, delicately. 'Not quite where you want to be, but not quite where you ought to be.' He chuckled. 'You understand? You're not going anywhere until your files have been appraised.'

'I don't want to be here,' said Salazar, levelly. 'I can't be dead. I have things to do.'

'Like what, Mr Slytherin?'

'Things,' he repeated, uncertainly. 'I can't quite...remember. But there are definitely things,' he insisted, to Elspeth's condescending smile. 'There are...people I need. A person.' He strained his mind as best he could. The process ached. 'Look, are you sure I didn't just bang my head? I've forgotten a lot of important things. Where the hell is my beard?'

'Sorry, Mr Slytherin?'

'I had a beard a minute ago!' He patted desperately at his chin, and held a threatening finger up to Elspeth. 'Did you _shave_ me?'

'Shave you? I saved you!'

'That's not funny!'

Elspeth wiped a silver tear from his eye. 'Very sorry, Mr Slytherin, very sorry...but this is good news for you, indeed! It's your lucky day!'

'My hair just got shorter,' he said, grasping at his pony tail.

'Yes indeed, Mr Slytherin. It seems you're getting younger as we speak!'

Salazar felt himself drop two inches. 'Younger?'

'Yes indeed! It would seem you're being summoned to a meeting!'

'But - but it took me _ages_ to grow that beard,' he pleaded, weakly.

Elspeth tutted. 'Behave yourself now, Mr Slytherin. If someone wishes to see you, you should consider yourself highly fortunate.'

'Will I stop getting younger? - oh fabulous, my voice just un-broke.'

'I can't answer that, Mr Slytherin. Or should I say _Master _Slytherin, excuse me. If someone wishes to see you, they must see you exactly as they last saw you. They couldn't possibly imagine you as they've never seen you, could they now?' He smiled. Salazar's insides grumbled.

Finally, he stopped shrinking.

He looked down at his feet. They were smaller. His hands, too. His chest was skinnier than he could ever remember it being.

He looked up at Elspeth. 'How old am I?'

'A most handsome little man of eleven years, I'd venture.'

'Oh good,' he said. 'Four years of unsolicited erections to look forward to.'

'Now now, Master Slytherin-'

Salazar sighed. 'Well, at least I know who I'm meeting. Lord Cray Slytherin, yes?'

Elspeth beamed. 'A very smart little lad, as well!'

He raised a warning finger. 'None of that little lad business, please. I'm nineteen.' His forehead crumpled with thought. 'At least, I think I am.'

'Look,' said Elspeth, 'are you going to wear the ham or not?'

'So it _is _ham,' he said, triumphantly.

Elspeth rolled his eyes. 'No, it's not ham. It's _sin._'

Salazar stared at it. It was a small, awkward lump in the palm of Elspeth's hand, with thin, floating tendrils that reached out and curled in the air. It looked like some kind of undersea plant pulled by the tide. It also looked like a primary ingredient of Hufflepuff Half-Dozen Stew.

'Sin,' he said. 'Right.'

'You just have to carry it around, while ever you're here,' Elspeth explained, kindly. 'We've been storing it for you, but now you're here it makes sense that _you_ take care of it.'

'It's _my _sin?'

'Nineteen juicy years of it.'

Salazar stared at it. A ribbon-like tendril wrapped idly around Elspeth's finger. 'But whatever would I wear it with?' he asked. 'Grey's so not in fashion this year, and it'll do nothing to streamline my figure-'

'Just put it on,' Elspeth sighed. 'I've got people to see.'

'Right.' Wincing with the expectation of pain, he held out his right arm. Elspeth placed the sin delicately on his shoulder, where it fitted rather comfortably. There was a mild nipping sensation as it took purchase of him, but overall it was quite painless.

'There we are,' said Elspeth, smiling brightly. 'Suits you just fine. Shall we be off?'

Salazar looked around. There was no horizon and no sky. '_Where?_' he demanded.

'Just follow me,' said Elspeth, sashaying mystically into the distance. 'I know the way.'

The man wasn't lying. Salazar wondered if he even _could _lie. For that matter, could Salazar? He wasn't even sure how to, anymore - there wasn't enough truth in his universe to go against. Would he have even known his own name if Elspeth hadn't reminded him?

This wasn't right. None of it was right.

He _couldn't _be dead, because he...couldn't. There was something. Something should have stopped him dying. A_ fact_. An _idea. _There was something...

And there was something else. He didn't _want _to be dead. There was something he definitely _wanted _to live for, someone-

He blinked, and as his eyes closed he glimpsed two round, blue eyes, smiling-

'Well, here we are,' Elspeth announced, cheerfully. They were stood before something that hadn't previously been there. This was by no means the most unusual moment of his afterlife thus far, but was high on the list. It was a tall, damp stone, and the words _Lord Cray Slytherin, Rest in Peace _were carved elaborately into it. Moss grew in the cracks. For a moment, Salazar was unable to tear his eyes away from it - the vibrant, emerald green in the world of grey.

'It's a door,' said Salazar.

Elspeth raised an eyebrow. 'You weren't a very bright child, were you?'

'Shut up,' said Salazar, mildly.

'Yes, it's a door. I'd give it a good knock before you go barging in there, regardless of whether or not he's expecting you.' He lowered his voice to add, 'Something of a grumpy-knickers, this one.'

Salazar took a step away. He shook his head. 'I don't want to go in there.'

'Now now, Master Slytherin,' said Elspeth, taking hold of his shoulders. 'No use struggling, is there? He can't hurt you now.' He smiled brightly, and added, 'Afterall, he's already the indirect cause of your death. All he can do now is get on your nerves. And you no longer have any nerves to get on! So that's alright, isn't it? Whoopsie, sorry Master Slytherin, I appear to have put my thumb on your sin.' He wiped his hand on his tunic. 'No harm done.'

Salazar continued to shake his head. He felt eleven again. 'I don't want to go in. I don't want to-'

'Don't be a tart,' said Elspeth, and knocked against the gravestone three times. 'Toodle-pip, Master Slytherin!'

Salazar saw him leave from the corner of his eye, but never again. If his heart wasn't already unfunctional, it would have frozen in his narrow chest. The grave swung like an opening door. And the most familiar, dry voice said, 'Come in.'

Salazar didn't move.

Cray Slytherin said, 'Or you can spend the rest of eternity wandering blindly through a grey, sightless neverwhere, of course.'

Salazar stepped past the gravestone, and suddenly there was a _place._ There were walls and furniture and peculiar charms hanging from shelves and books and a cauldron and ornaments and paintings and there, lounging elegantly in a tall oak chair, was Cray Slytherin.

When Salazar had last seen him, he'd been - old. He didn't know how old exactly, but he'd been ill and weak and wrinkled. The man before him was in his thirties and sharp, with red hair and ice-blue eyes. He was dressed finely, and smiling a thin, relaxed smile. Grey ribbons of sin swirled all around him, slipping seamlessly along his arms and into his veins. It furrowed into his cheek, causing a smooth grey swelling. All around him it oozed and teased at the air, burying into him, examining the world around him.

Salazar said, 'You're looking good.'

Cray's eyes wrinkled. 'It's been a long time, my dear boy.'

He nodded wordlessly. Then: 'You look a bit different.'

'You don't.' There was an elegant glass in his hand, filled with a brightly coloured liquid. A small umbrella rested against the side of the glass. 'Do you want to see?'

'No,' said Salazar, honestly.

Cray nodded. 'Turn around.'

He did so, very slowly. A rust-flecked pane of glass cast his reflection back at him.

He was small. Tall for his age, but diminutive: skinny, sharp-nosed, grey around the eyes. His hair was short and unkempt. The clothes he wore fitted as they had nine years ago: a little too long around the ankles and wrists, ready for the growth spurt that would begin the following summer.

He nodded. 'Pasty,' he observed.

'And me?'

Salazar turned back to him. 'Good,' he said, again. 'Much better.'

'Younger,' said Cray, taking an extravagant sip of his drink. 'Also not being stabbed to death by yourself.'

Salazar remembered. 'Yes,' he agreed. 'You weren't exactly at your physical peak then.'

'Spineless.'

He shrugged. 'Eleven.'

'When _I _was eleven, I pushed my brother from a cliff in order to win my title.'

Salazar nodded. 'Cool.'

Cray smiled. 'I can't tell you how proud you made me,' he said, twirling the tiny umbrella between two fingers, 'as you pushed that sword into my chest.'

'Well...there's nothing quite like a bond with grandad.'

'But you should have waited,' he continued, sadly, 'until I was awake. Your method was cowardly.'

'Sorry.'

'I knew, then, that I couldn't trust you.'

'Sorry,' Salazar said again. He sighed, and took a seat on the floor. 'Something's gone wrong, hasn't it?'

Cray smiled. 'Why do you say that?'

'I'm not sure,' he admitted. 'But I know that...something's technically wrong. I shouldn't _be _here.'

He shrugged. 'That's what they all say.'

'But I shouldn't - I shouldn't be _allowed _to be dead,' he insisted, wringing his hands desperately. 'This is _wrong. _There was something keeping me alive - something I didn't do-'

'Like fulfilling the terms of a curse, maybe?' Cray suggested, innocently.

'Yes!' He jumped to his feet, the memory hitting him like falling brick. 'The curse! I was supposed to - to kill...' His voice faltered. He sat back down.

'You were supposed to kill Godric,' Cray finished, with a nod. 'Indeed, you were.'

'But I refused,' said Salazar.

'And you know it doesn't work like that.'

He shook his head. There was a pain there that he first assumed to be concentration, but was actually a ribbon of sin burying behind his ear. He swatted it away impatiently. 'I don't understand,' he said. 'I don't _remember_. Please.'

Cray arched an eyebrow, and offered a facial shrug. He sipped at his drink a moment, and said, 'I believe Xavier sent you to see me.'

'He killed me,' said Salazar. The pain in his chest appeared along with the memory.

'He did.'

'What an arse.'

'He killed you,' Cray continued, ignoring him, 'because he knew that, until the curse is resolved, your death is simply a temporary measure. You cannot _stay _here until all is settled.'

'Oh?' He smiled a little. 'Goody.'

'I imagine he wanted me to talk some sense into you.' He shrugged. 'Funny thought.'

Salazar waited. Eventually he asked: 'Are you going to?'

'I wouldn't waste my time on it, William. A useless bag of flesh like yourself is hardly capable of living out my dream.'

'Well it's a bit late for that,' he said, pointedly, 'since I've already been cursed and prophecised on the subject.'

Cray picked at his nails for a moment. He asked, 'Do you know where we are, William?'

'Not really.'

'Our location is a rather abstract concept; free of time, free of space.' He grinned. 'Everything is rather wibbly.'

'Wibbly.'

'Yes. Neither one thing nor another.'

'Wibbly.' Salazar sighed. 'OK. And?'

'And the very interesting thing that I realised, as you stabbed me repeatedly in the chest, is that the prophecy dictating your murder of Godric and destruction of the sub-human race is curiously...ambiguous.'

Salazar stared. Eventually he said, 'What.'

'Yes.' He swung a leg leisurely over the chair arm. 'For example, it refers to "He" and "Him", but no names. It refers to the "weapon of His father", but no mention of who this father is.' He smiled. 'It's all rather delightfully frustrating, isn't it? I mean, "father" could mean anything. It could mean parent, grand-parent, great, great, great, great grand-parent...'

'I'm sorry,' said Salazar, rubbing his temples, 'what are you saying?'

'I'm saying that, if you do the right thing and raise me a couple of babies, who knows _where_ this attempt at world-domination will spring up. It'll be floating somewhere around the gene pool for a couple of centuries, I imagine, before the true Slytherin heir pops up. And that'll give me just enough time to order another Harvey Wallbanger.' He raised his glass, and took another sip.

Salazar closed his eyes. 'Right,' he said, eventually, 'so let me get this straight. Now you _don't_ want me to kill anyone?'

'Correct.'

'No one at all.'

'Not really.'

'But-'

'I mean, you can try the destroyer-of-races thing if you want, by all means. But I sincerely doubt you have the balls for it.' He placed the now-empty glass on the floor, and belched.

'But the curse!' Salazar cried. 'You put a bloody curse on me!'

Cray sighed. 'Fine. I hereby release you from the curse.'

'Sorry, now?'

'I hereby release you from your curse.'

Without looking, Salazar flicked some sin from his kneecap. 'And...and that's it, is it?'

'Yep.' He couldn't be sure, but a snake tongue appeared, briefly, to whistle between his lips. _Wibbly._

'That's just...that's how you cancel it, is it?'

_'Yes_.' Cray sighed. 'Do you have a problem with that?'

'Well, yes, as it happens!' He leapt to his feet, gesturing high above his head. 'There's an incredibly psychotic bastard up there - or down there, I'm not sure - and he's not going to leave me alone until I do what you told me! How's _he _going to know you've cancelled it?'

Cray grinned. 'That's true. What an all-mighty pickle.'

'What am I going to do?'

'You're now confusing me for someone with your best interests at heart.' He waved his hands dismissively. 'Piss off.'

'But-'

'Oh William, _shoo_. You have damsels to save.' He raised his eyebrows suggestively. 'Remember Rowena, William?'

His heart thudded. Salazar panicked to clutch at it, to ease the pain.

Cray smiled. 'I'll take that as a yes.'

'How do I get-'

'One more chance, William. If you should change your mind.' He brushed away some sin. 'You know how to find me. Now _go._'

Salazar Slytherin woke up.

It was not the expected course of events.


	22. Chapter 22: Devious

**Chapter 22: Devious**

Salazar managed to peel open one eyelid. Again, everything was grey, everything was hard, everything was -

Pleasantly familiar! Ha!

He opened the other eye. The world spun grimly around him for a moment before settling and - yes - it was the Great Hall.

His smile quickly dropped. There had been people here...

He looked around, quickly. The hall was empty. How much time had passed? It was still night, but then it was always night in wintertime. His heart thumped in his chest - well, that was a pleasant change, at least - and he assessed his position. "Slumped" was probably the best way to describe it. His shirt was wet with blood, though a quick check showed the wound itself had healed. There was dry blood in his beard - his beard! oh, heavens above - and an unpleasant iron taste in his mouth. He struggled to his feet.

It took him a second or so to find balance, so he grabbed at the wall for purchase. He cleared his throat and ventured, 'Ro?'

He smiled, very slightly. His deep and manly tones had returned to him once more.

'Rowena?' he tried again, a little louder. 'Ravenclaw?'

He made his way to what remained of the door on unsteady, shaking legs. Huge Malfoy flags still adorned the corridors. 'Rowena?' he called. 'Are you here?'

He stopped, very quickly. Sophia stood at the end of the corridor. Her eyes were wide and dark.

'Soph,' he said, taking a step towards her. 'Soph, you've got to-'

'You were _dead_,' she hissed, unmoving.

'I was,' he agreed, 'for a bit. It's all very confusing, Soph, I'm still feeling rather sore about the whole experience-'

Sophia ran at him. He held his arms above his head to defend himself, but it was too late: she hugged him.

'Argh,' said Salazar, uncomfortably. 'Thank you. Ow. Sophia, please-'

'I thought you'd gone,' she whispered.

'I thought you wanted me to!'

This, evidently, was the wrong thing to say. She squeezed him harder. 'Oh, Salazar. I always wanted you to win, you see? Always thought that we could have beautiful babies together-'

Salazar quickly wriggled free from her grasp. 'I appreciate your concern, Sophia, I really do. And I need your help.'

She pawed at his chest, dreamy-eyed. 'Yes, love?'

'I need you to, er...' He looked quickly up and down the corridor. 'Where's Xavier?'

'I don't know.' She latched onto his shoulder, her face snuggled into his chest so the blood imprinted onto her cheek. 'He's gone completely starkers.'

'Starkers?' said Salazar. He wrinkled his nose. 'Naked?'

'No...mad.'

'Oh.' He patted her hair distractedly. 'Yes, I rather got that impression when he ran a sword into me.'

'I don't like it anymore, William. I want to go home.'

'Yes,' he said. 'OK. Shush.' He cleared his throat again. A little blood came up with it. 'Sophia, I need you to tell me where Rowena is. Can you do that?'

Sophia squeezed him tighter. 'You don't really care about her.'

'No,' he agreed, 'no, not at all. But out of academic curiosity, do you - ouch, Soph, please, don't squeeze-'

'She's with the fat blonde one,' said Sophia, muffled. 'She's not moving or breathing.'

Salazar's insides froze all at once. Very quietly, he said, 'Who isn't breathing, Sophia?'

She had her face pressed right into his collar bone now. Her words were barely audible as she mumbled, 'Does it even matter?'

'Yes,' he said, hoarsely, 'it matters very, very much-'

'The blonde one,' she said, boredly.

He dared to breathe out. 'Oh god.'

'Take your trousers off.'

He pushed her away and held her firmly by the shoulders. 'Sophia, I can't even begin to stress how inappropriate a moment this is.'

She giggled. 'Xavier said you'd come back soon. He said you still had to fight.' She beamed up at him, and her eyes were miles away. 'I bet you win.'

'Thanks,' he said, letting her go and sliding away from her, 'thank you very much, Sophia, thank you-' He froze in his tracks, a few metres away. He turned to face her and said, 'Run away, Soph. Really far away.'

Sophia smiled, and rested her head on one shoulder. 'Should I, Salazar?'

'Yes.' He continued down the corridor on uncertain legs, holding the walls as he ran, the floor tilting further and further with each step he took.

00000

Rowena rose to her feet as he approached. A strange smile played about her lips.

Salazar held his hand over his mouth. Helga was laid across the floor, completely motionless, and Richard was unconscious and blood soaked. Anatole was bent over him, tending to his wounds and trying incredibly hard not to breathe in the smell. His cheeks were wet.

'Ro,' said Salazar, coming to a halt in front of her. There were no words after that. His throat was swollen.

Rowena said, 'You took your time.'

'Yes,' he said, uncertainly. 'I was stabbed. I'm so sorry.'

She peered at his shirt for a moment. Eventually she concluded, 'You've cut yourself.'

'Sort of,' he agreed.

'Shaving accident, was it?' she asked, pointing at the blood in his beard. 'You ought to be more careful.'

Salazar stared at her, uncomprehendingly. He looked to Anatole, who shrugged.

'Ro,' he said, after a moment, 'I think you may have gone into shock.'

'Shock?' said Rowena, eyebrows raised. 'What a funny notion. And you _never _call me Ro.' She nudged him in the ribs. 'I'll permit Rowena, if you really insist.'

Anatole spoke up to say, 'It could be something to do with a sort-of spell thing I may or may not have administered. To keep her calm,' he added, off Salazar's look, 'just until the situation was resolved.' He smiled cheerfully. 'I had one too.'

'Scrotum!' cried Rowena, joyfully.

'Ye gods,' said Salazar. 'Did you really think this was a good idea, with _all_ that's going on and all the danger you're in?'

'La la la,' said Anatole. 'Can't hear you.'

'Rowena,' he said, taking her by the hand and steering her delicately away from Helga's body. 'Rowena, you've got to listen to me. Something very awful has happened.'

Rowena smiled. 'I'm vaguely aware of that, yes.'

'Good. Because as soon as this wears off it's going to hit you twice as hard, you see?'

She nodded smartly. 'Right-ho.'

'And while we're on the subject, I think we should probably introduce a law against this kind of thing, and possibly have Anatiddle forcibly removed from his office, and...' He smiled, despite himself. Rowena was watching him with wide, eager eyes, nodding with every word.

She said, 'Why do you look so sad?'

'Because you don't?' He shook his head. 'Come here.' He took her hand, and lead her further away from the scene behind them. Both their outfits were covered in blood. It was almost funny, in a horrible and sickening and not very funny kind of way.

He pushed open a classroom door, and closed it silently after them. Rowena placed the sword on a table with a gentle _thunk_. She declared, 'Helga's dead.'

Salazar nodded. 'Yes.'

She smiled a little. 'I _know_ it, but I can't _feel_ it. Do you know what I mean?'

'I can imagine,' he said, diplomatically. Best not to bring up the fact that he'd been dead for twenty minutes. It would only lead to name-calling.

She nodded to herself. Her lip trembled slightly. 'I felt it for a little bit, but then Anatole made it better. I think my entire world's just ended,' she concluded.

Salazar looked at his feet. 'I can imagine,' he said again.

She smiled. 'Do you think it's just a really bad dream?'

'No,' he said, sadly. 'There'd be more babies if it was.'

'Biting you?'

'Yes.'

She snorted. 'Strange boy. Let's have a dance.'

Salazar took a step back. 'What?'

'A dance,' she said again. It wasn't a question.

The look on his face suggested that "dance" was actually a shameful act involving a tub of margarine and a pygmy goat. 'I don't think this is really the time, Ravenclaw-'

'Oh, come on,' she demanded, grabbing his shoulders, 'he'll be round in a minute anyway, and then you'll kill him or he'll kill you but either way we probably won't get to do this again for some time so just put your hands on my bum and _dance_, will you?'

'Right,' he said, quickly doing as instructed, 'right, then.'

They rotated clumsily for a while. Between his newly-alive legs and her delirious state, they were hardly proficient. But above the smell of the blood he caught the scent of her hair, and past the screaming in her ears she heard the thud of his heart in his chest and, for a moment, both smiled.

'How is it?' asked Rowena.

'It's OK,' he said. 'Too many skirts on, but I can just about cop a feel of the right buttock.'

'I meant the dancing,' she said, after a diplomatic pause.

He shrugged, and moved his hands to her waist. 'That's OK too.'

'It's been a funny old day, hasn't it?'

'A bit,' Salazar conceded.

'You know when we were in school, and someone transfigured all of your clothing into huge bras?'

'...Yes?'

'That was me.'

He nodded. 'I know.'

'And that other time,' she continued, 'when someone put a spell on your potions book so whenever you opened it it sang "My name is Shirley and I'm a big girly"?'

'You as well?'

'Yep.'

'Right.' They continued to rotate slowly on the spot. Salazar said, 'Remember when you refused to sleep for a week because every time you tried you heard your owl telling you to burn things?'

'Oh, you bastard.'

'Yep.' He laughed. 'That was me.'

'The time that Crispin Lightfoot chased you up a tree because Elvina had devoted twelve pages of her diary to your hair?'

'I rather enjoyed that one.'

'_I _was the one who encouraged the angry woodpecker.'

'I'm the reason you had purple urine for six months in third year.'

She laughed. 'I didn't even notice that one.'

'Damn...'

_The end of the world_, thought Salazar, glumly, _as we know it._ This spell wears off, somebody else has to die, and everything else is shot to buggery. It's over.

It's all over.

Except, it can't be. It's never over. There's always _something_, _anything_, no matter how half-baked or dangerous. There's always a plan or coincidence.

It wasn't Right.

It couldn't end like this.

_One last chance, William..._

'Rowena,' he said, breaking their embrace and holding her by the shoulders. 'I need you to do something for me.'

She raised an eyebrow. 'I'm not taking my skirts off, Salazar. It would take me half an hour.'

'Not that. Although - _no_, not that.' He shook himself. 'I think I have an idea.'

She sighed and shook her head. 'You can't fix it, Salazar. It's over.'

'No it isn't,' he insisted, taking an even firmer hold of her arms. 'There's something I can do that you don't know about.'

'Salazar-'

'And if you could do it, you'd try it too.' He looked her briefly up and down. 'You're annoying and morally untampered like that.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'You have to kill me,' he said, staring into her eyes.

Rowena stared back.

After a moment, she giggled. 'That's insane.'

'I know,' he said, grudgingly. 'But trust me.' He raised his arms above his head and took a step back. 'Come on,' he said, 'make it clean. Straight through.'

Rowena stared. 'You're kidding.'

'I'm not! - but get my lung if you can. It hurts a fair bit, but at least I'll know what to expect.'

'What do you possibly hope to achieve by this?' she demanded, pushing the hair from her eyes. 'Fair enough you won't have to fight Godric, but we'll all still be at the mercy of Malfoy and his Nymphettes.'

Salazar sighed. 'Look, I don't like this any more than you do. I'm really not a huge fan of heroism and needless self-sacrifice. But the truth is that my very own testicles could be the cure to a lot of lost lives and hundreds of pounds of property damage, so if you value your life at all you'll stab me in the god damn lung.'

Rowena's mouth hung open. She said, '_What?_'

'I'd do it myself, but I'd probably just bugger it up! Come on. Pick up the sword.'

She did so. The handle was bloody. 'What was that about your testicles?'

'Just do it,' he said, moving so his back was against the wall. 'Really push. I'll be fine.'

'Really?'

'Probably. But you'll probably want to get on with it before that spell wears off, or you'll never get round to it.'

'This is a strange party trick,' Rowena said, uncertainly. 'Can't you just have a third nipple like normal people?'

He laughed. It wasn't particularly funny, but there'd been a laugh brewing for a while. Hysteria, possibly. 'Please,' he said. 'Just kill me. I'll be fine.'

'Salazar-'

'If you stab me, I can bring Helga back.'

She did not hesitate. And the last thing he saw, as the blood poured from his mouth, was the dark image of her stepping backwards, her hand over her mouth, eyes shut.

He smiled at that.

000

'Whoo!' said Salazar, jumping to his feet. 'Eleven years old, look at that. _Elspeth! _Rowena Ravenclaw, Rowena Ravenclaw...'

Elspeth appeared at his shoulder, sin in hand. His expression was one of concern. 'Are you alright, Master Slytherin?'

'Blue eyes, brown hair, magnificent chest!' he roared, as much as was possible for an eleven year old. 'Rowena Ravenclaw! Don't let me forget that, you weird little bastard,' he added to Elspeth, threateningly.

Elspeth held up his hands. 'I don't know what's gotten into you, Master Slytherin-'

'Give me the sin,' he demanded, holding out his arm. 'Not on the shoulder this time; that was tickly. Stick it on my elbow.'

Elspeth did so, glancing a look around nervously. 'You know, this isn't anything like normal protocol...'

'Protocol shmotocol, Elspeth! Rowena Raven...' He screwed his eyes shut. _Blue eyes, brown hair...damn..._

'Ravenclaw?' Elspeth suggested, cautiously.

'Yes!' He punched him on the shoulder. 'That's the badger! Good man, Elspeth, good man!'

'Well, technically I'm not a man,' Elspeth admitted, matter-of-factly, 'I'm actually a genderless, ageless, nameless administrative clerk. But I find that offering a name helps people feel more comfortable.' He smiled proudly to himself.

Salazar nodded. 'It's certainly quicker to pronounce.'

Elspeth beamed. 'Very amusing, Master Slytherin.'

He shut his eyes again. The effort of memory was a hard, dead pain in his head-

'What am I here for, Elspeth?'

'Er,' said Elspeth, 'Rowena Ravenclaw...?'

'Yes!' He thumped him again. 'Rowena. Rowena. Take me to Cray, now.'

Elspeth looked around his shoulder. 'Who, me?'

'_Yes_, you!'

'Oh, I'm sorry Master Slytherin,' he said, beginning to back away. 'I can only take you where you've been summoned. And as you're now legally and unexpectedly dead, as you can imagine I now have a huge mountain of paperwork to sift through-'

'You take me to him,' said Salazar, stepping after him. 'Or I'll...' He glanced down at himself. He was trapped in his eleven year old body, what the hell were his options? 'I'll tell everyone you touched me inappropriately!'

Elspeth gasped. 'You _wouldn't!_'

Salazar Slytherin - eleven years old, five foot four, skinny, pale and generously nosed - said, 'Do I look like I'm kidding?'

Elspeth glared at him. His eyes ceased to be friendly. 'This is going on your record, you know.'

Salazar held his arms high. 'But I'm doing it to save the woman I love!'

He shook his head. 'Doesn't matter, you little git. Follow me.'

000

Rowena walked along the third floor corridor. The point of the bloodied sword bounced along behind her, dragged lazily across the floor.

She checked each classroom, cupboard, bathroom and library. Her expression remained, at all times, peaceful.

This was, even on a normal day, a dangerous sign.

When she caught up with him, he was stood at the corner where two corridors met. Godric was with him, still bound and unconscious.

He held a wand in one hand and sword in the other.

With spikes on.

'It's you,' said Xavier, in his nearly-cracked, far away voice.

'Yep,' said Rowena, coming to a halt in front of him.

He smiled. 'No wand?'

'No wand.'

'I won't be talked out of this,' he said, certainly. He increased his grip on his wand. The tip glowed green. 'He'll come to fight.'

Rowena said, 'I've known Helga since I was two years old.'

Xavier said, 'Who?'

'You murdered my best friend,' she said, steadily.

He nodded, wide-eyed. 'Casualty of war. Stress release.' He grinned. 'Most diverting.'

Rowena swallowed hard. 'I just killed the man I love.'

Xavier shrugged. 'So?'

'So _this _is going to be easy.'

0000

Meanwhile, in purgatory:

'What do you _want?_' Cray demanded, wearily.

'Er...it's not me,' said Elspeth. 'It's young Master Slytherin. He's very insistent.'

Cray sighed. 'Send him in.'

'Yes, sire.'

'And get me a Tequila Sunrise, would you? This headache...'

'Yes, sire!'

Salazar barged past the gravestone, and was again face-to-face with Cray Slytherin. He said, 'You've not changed position.'

'You only just left,' said Cray, wearily. 'How long's it been?'

He shrugged. 'Thirty minutes?'

'And he stabbed you _again?_'

'No, Rowena Ravenclaw did that.' _Rowena Ravenclaw. Rowena Ravenclaw._ He was already forgetting the meaning of the words, but kept it going like a mantra in his head. _Rowena Ravenclaw._

Cray smiled. 'Did she, now?'

He nodded. 'I told her to.'

He sat up. 'I see. So you're not expecting to stay here, I assume? This is a...' he waved his fingers as if hitting an invisible piano, 'flying visit?'

'Sort of,' he said. 'Because you're going to let me go back.'

'You're going to kill him?'

'No.' _Rhonwen Ravenclough. _'I have a better trade.'

'Trade?' Cray repeated. His nose wrinkled in distaste. 'I don't think you quite understand how this works, boy.'

'If I fulfil the prophecy, I get my life,' said Salazar. 'Fairly straight forward. I get it.'

'Then what is the earthly point of-'

'Do you want my babies?' Salazar demanded.

Cray stared at him, recoiling slightly in his seat. 'Elspeth warned me you were making inflammatory comments.'

'After all her failed attempts, it's fair to assume that Sophia's infertile,' he said, ticking the names off on his fingers. 'Godric refuses to have children due to the high risk of puppies. Xavier is, quite frankly, straight-up mental, and I can't see him having any more babies since his last one - a squib, as I'm sure you know. So, ta-da!' He waved his hands.

Cray winced. '"Ta-da"? I don't know what that means.'

'Come on,' he insisted, 'I'm good, healthy stock! Look at these shoulders.' He caught his own reflection in the mirror and added, 'OK, not much now, admittedly, but give it ten years. I'm _supple_.'

Cray looked aghast. 'What are you suggesting?'

'I'm suggesting that if you want your murderous heir, you're going to need _my_ goods on the production line. And I've always kept out of that kind of trouble.'

He didn't say anything else. The glare said it for him.

'To summarise,' said Salazar, getting the hint, 'I'm not going to have any children unless you do me a great big favour.'

'You will,' said Cray, boredly.

'Vow of chastity,' said Salazar.

He scoffed.

'Alright, then I'll stay dead. Your line ends here. Prophecy shmophecy.'

Cray tapped his fingers on the chair arm. After a moment, he called, '_Elspeth!_ Where's the damn Sunrise?'

'I am a devious bastard,' Salazar announced, proudly.


	23. Chapter 23: Paperwork

**A/N: **Last chapter before the epilogue, folks :)

**Chapter 23: Paperwork**

Rowena was fairly sure she was hallucinating. There were very few other alternatives.

For example, it wasn't every day she found herself sat solemnly astride a dolphin. Nor could she remember the lake ever being so sparkly, nor tasting so much like tomato soup.

Her head ached. Her headache ached.

'Er...hello,' she said, uncertainly.

Her mother, sat by the water's edge, looked up. She said, 'Yes, dear?'

'Right,' said Rowena, glad to have got that one sorted, 'I _am _hallucinating, then.'

'Well, I should hope so, dear. I've been dead for fourteen years.'

'Thought so.' She glanced down at the dolphin between her thighs. It looked up at her gleefully, and Rowena recoiled. 'It's not a very good hallucination. I don't even like dolphins.'

'I don't like _that _one. It's got sex-offender eyes.'

'Ugh.' She shuffled uncomfortably down the dolphin's back, landing in the surprisingly fluffy water. Hoisting her skirts above her knees, she waded over the the shore.

Rhiannon Ravenclaw was as Rowena remembered her: tall, black hair, blue eyes, apologetic smile, and a vast cauldron bubbling by her feet. Rowena found a seat on a tree stump beside her. The same orange stains scarred the cauldron's smooth surface; the same electric blue fizz ran up and down the wooden spoon.

'I must say,' she said, at last, 'this is all very strange.'

'It's the spell,' said Rhiannon, confidently. 'It's propelled you into a bizarre dream state to protect your mind from the horrible things around you.'

She scratched her head. 'That's weird.'

'I know.' She shrugged. 'But it's _your _dream state. You're looking well, by the way,' she added, patting her assuringly on the thigh. 'Very child-bearing. Let's see your tongue?' Rowena obediently produced the offending muscle, earning an appreciative nod. 'Very healthy!'

'Thanks,' said Rowena. She looked around. The woods behind them were surprisingly pink and airy and non-threatening. She cleared her throat. 'So...is anyone else going to be here, or is it just us?'

Rhiannon shrugged. 'The dolphin's here. Isn't he enough?'

'I'm really not too fond.'

'But it's got Godric's face,' Rhiannon pointed out.

Rowena looked again. 'Huh. So it has.'

The Godric-dolphin performed an elegant back-flip, and called, 'Morning, Miss Ravenclaw!'

'Morning?' Rowena suggested. She turned to Rhiannon. 'What are you making?'

'This?' She kicked the cauldron by her foot and said, 'Another attempt at alchemy, I'm afraid.'

'Oh, mum, you said-'

'I know, I know. But the king wants what the king wants.' She sighed. 'Unfortunately, all I've managed to do so far is turn a piece of metal into Heather Bettany's flat bottom, and nobody wants that.'

Rowena closed her eyes and shook her head. 'What in hell's name is going on?'

'There's a bit of Richard's nose in here as well,' she observed, casually. 'Very odd.'

'Is it a metaphor?' she asked, imploringly. 'Something about turning Richard into gold? Because if it is, I can't see where Heather's bum figures into it. Nor why Godric has a dolphin's body.'

'Ah,' said Rhiannon, raising a knowing finger, 'or does the dolphin have Godric's face?'

'Shut up, mum.'

She calmly stirred the pot. 'How is your brother, anyway?'

'Not too good,' Rowena admitted. 'He got tortured and cracked his skull against a wall.'

'Bless him,' said Rhiannon, affectionately.

'Also Helga's dead,' she added, sulkily. She tried for sadness, but all her thoughts and feelings had been replaced by a vague, foggy feeling. Her heart felt soft, like cotton wool.

Rhiannon hit her scoldingly with a wooden spoon, bringing her as back to her senses as was possible. 'Don't be silly,' she said, sternly. 'Helga's in the lake, rolling about in kittens. Aren't you, dear!'

'Is dad around?' Rowena demanded, checking the cauldron. 'If it's _my_ hallucination, I should be able to see my dad.'

Rhiannon waved a vague hand. 'He's around somewhere. I think he's out back with William.'

'Salazar,' Rowena corrected her. 'William's what his family calls him.'

Rhiannon beamed. 'Well, we're all family now.'

Rowena frowned at the thought, and began to back away. She left her hallucinatory mother tending to her hallucinatory body parts, and followed the imaginary lake in search of fictitious Salazar.

'Where are you going?' cried Godric, leaping from the lake.

'Piss off,' said Rowena, edging out of his way. 'Dolphin's shouldn't wear beards.'

She found her dad by the woods, grinning energetically. The memory was faithful: the smiling eyes, the brown curly hair, the freckles. He threw a stick enthusiastically into the woods and turned to her.

'Ro!' he cried, happily. 'So nice of you to hallucinate me.'

'No problem,' she said, uncertainly.

Thomas Ravenclaw lowered his voice and said, 'This is all a bit weird, eh?'

She nodded. 'I'll say. As soon as I find out what spell Anatole hit me with, I'm going to bite off his belly-button.'

'Now now,' said Thomas, wagging a finger, 'we'll have none of that, thank you.' He sniffed. 'Anyway, he's over there somewhere, slow-dancing with that amusing Hat friend of yours. Do you want to look for him?'

'Not really.'

The conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Salazar, who jogged towards them from the woods with a stick in his hand. 'Here you go, sir,' he announced cheerfully, handing the stick to Thomas.

Thomas beamed. 'Good boy, William!'

Rowena winced. 'Salazar?'

'Hello there,' he greeted, jubilantly. 'We're playing fetch.'

'They've taught dogs to do it,' Thomas added, proudly.

Rowena looked between them slowly. Eventually she said, 'But you're not a dog. And your name's _Salazar._ I don't understand.'

Salazar just shrugged. 'Well, we always knew it would end this way. There's no going back now!'

'But I'm _dreaming_,' Rowena insisted. 'None of this is real-'

'Fetch!' Thomas threw the stick deep into the woods. Salazar bounded off after it. 'He's a good kid,' said Thomas, with certainty.

Rowena sighed and sat down. 'I don't understand. Is it a _metaphor?_'

Thomas shrugged. 'Maybe!'

She massaged her temples. 'Maybe it's more of a...simile,' she managed, eventually.

'Pathetic fallacy?' he suggested, waving his arms around in a mystical fashion.

'No, that's completely different.'

'Soliloquy!'

Rowena looked up at him desperately. 'I suppose it could be a sort of..._metaphorical_ soliloquy?'

He tucked her under the chin affectionately. 'You know all the words, darling. Such a clever cupcake.'

Rowena sighed. 'I've never killed anyone before.'

He ruffled her hair. 'There's a first for everything, sweetheart. And besides, in this lawless age of feudalism and physical superiority, no one's going to judge you for a well-deserved bit of murder.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really.' He straightened up and added, 'Now you'd better get up, because your hallucination's under attack from a giant chicken!'

Rowena opened her eyes.

Clarence said, '_Cu-wark?_'

She shut her eyes, and cried.

0000

Cray sighed. 'Well, Xavier's dead.'

'Right?' said Salazar, uncertainly. Then: 'Right! And my babies are more sacred than ever.'

'Hm.' He sniffed haughtily, and began to pick at his nails. Sin curled playfully around his fingers.

Salazar watched for a moment, expectantly. When no more was offered, he said, 'Come on. You know it's your only choice.'

'I have other grandchildren,' he said, with a shrug. 'They still provide hope.'

Salazar scowled. 'Oh, give up. You know I have the superior genetics. Imagine an heir with my roguish good looks. Hm?' He prodded his own face for a moment, and added, 'These cheekbones don't look like much now, but trust me: I come out of puberty looking like a demi-god.'

'I sincerely doubt that.'

'Are you seriously willing to gamble everything you believe in on a _Gryffindor?_ Come on! I don't think he even _has_ sex. He thinks you can catch syphilis from a dirty joke.'

Cray pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Would you kindly remain quiet for just one moment? I need to think.'

Salazar fell obediently silent, and waited. Fortunately, the grey space disabled floods of strong emotion, so neither Slytherin had yet killed the other. Again. In his head he counted _Rowena Ravenclaw, Rowena Ravenclaw, Rowena Ravenclaw_.

'Summarise,' said Cray, at least. 'Tell me again.'

Salazar took a deep breath, and began: 'Right. You need me to have children, so that at some point in the distant future one of your heirs will inherit the prophecy mistakenly interpreted to land on me - i.e. the "fight your worst enemy and kill all mudbloods" thing. Yes?'

Cray didn't even offer him the dignity of a nod.

'Yes,' said Salazar. 'But unless you pull me this last favour, I'd rather stay dead than reproduce.'

He sighed. 'And the favour is?'

'Let Hufflepuff live.' Cray looked away, teeth gritted. 'Come on,' said Salazar, 'I know you can do it. Her death's all caught up in your ball-bag prophecy business, that should put her under _your_ jurisdiction.'

'So much paperwork,' Cray growled.

'Make Elspeth do it!'

Cray buried his face in his hands. For one horrifying moment, Salazar thought he was crying. But when he looked up, he realised the truth was more grizzly: in his frustration, Cray had clawed his nails into his face, and now the skin hung loose, floating freely with the sin.

Salazar recoiled. 'Christ in a bathtub...'

'I want something from you,' he hissed - and this hiss was despairingly literal. 'I do not allow cowards to be freed so easily.'

'Right,' said Salazar, uncomfortably. 'One shiny pureblood baby, yes? Keep the line strong?'

'_More than that_.'

He gulped. 'A leg?'

His eyes narrowed. 'What would I want with your leg?'

Salazar shrugged. 'Arm?'

Cray smiled. 'I'll take one of yours, William. When you're not looking.'

He blinked. 'One of my what?'

'One of Yours.'

Salazar climbed to his feet. 'You'll try,' he said. _No idea what he's after, but might as well leave an impression._ 'And - you'll let Hufflepuff back?'

'Yes,' he muttered, grudgingly.

'Good,' he said, as warningly as he could manage, 'or it'll be hari-kari town for young William.'

Cray hissed.

Salazar hovered by the gravestone. 'Well...nice seeing you, grandad.'

He stepped out. He said, 'Bloody hell.'

Helga waved. 'Coo-ee.'

Salazar looked down at himself. The beard was back. He was old again. He looked at Helga, and all around them, and said, 'Fancy meeting you here.'

'Yes,' said Helga, thoughtfully. She looked around, a little awkwardly, and said, 'Is it, like...a _metaphor?_'

'I have genuinely no idea,' said Salazar. He was surprised at how awkward he felt, standing by someone he'd last seen sprawled across the floor and blood-spattered. He was surprised more by the accompanying feeling of guilt. He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. 'Have you met Elspeth?'

'Oh yes,' said Helga. 'Funny little chap.'

'Yeah.' He cleared his throat. 'He should probably be here in a second or two. I'd imagine.'

Helga sighed. 'If it _is_ a metaphor, would you say that he represents the impassiveness of time, or more of a conscious-like figure?'

'Er...probably more of a statement about our lack of belonging in the universe and the underlying simplicity of what we consider to be the complicated human condition.'

'Ah.' She bounced on her heels for a moment. Then she said, 'So...being dead. Weird, isn't it?'

'You should try coming to life again,' said Salazar, 'that's the oddest part.'

'Apparently I will,' she said, avoiding his face, 'thanks to you. Apparently. Or something.' She coughed. 'So I hear.'

'Ah.' He waved his hand dismissively. 'It's nothing. _Elspeth!_' he added, desperately.

Helga sighed. 'The really funny part is, as soon as I got here I thought, Now I'll never know what he looks like with his trousers off.'

'_Elspeth!_' Salazar screamed. 'Get here now!'

She smiled forlornly. 'I mean, I've seen him in a towel before-'

'_Elspeth!_'

'-and that was rather nice, but I couldn't help but think about what could happen if I let him take me for a drink. Not sex-wise, necessarily-'

'COME HERE NOW, YOU BASTARD!'

'-but I mean in a more general, romantic kind of way. You know.' She sighed. 'He's really very funny.'

'_ELSPETH!_'

'Oh, stop screaming,' she said, mildly, 'I'll stop talking about sex with men.' She gave him a sideways look, and smiled slightly. She said, 'She loves you, you know.'

Salazar returned the look. He said, 'She loves you too.'

Helga smiled. 'I know.'

'Me too.' He brushed some imaginary dust from his sleeve and added, 'I'm a catch.'

'And so humble,' said Elspeth, appearing from the corner of his eye. He looked incredibly disgruntled. 'So much paperwork you two have caused me, I don't mind telling you.'

'Sorry,' said Helga, sincerely.

Elspeth just muttered bitterly under his breath.

'Can we go back now?' said Salazar

Elspeth scowled. 'Yes, it's _that_ easy. Just click your heels together three times, Tinkerbell.'

Helga raised an eyebrow. 'Will that work?'

'_No._ Hold hands.'

Helga and Salazar shared a look of repulsion. In unison, they said, 'No.'

Elspeth took a very deep breath. '_Hold. Hands._'

They quickly did so, with noses wrinkled and expressions of disgust readily applied. 'Clammy,' muttered Salazar, under his breath.

'Scaly,' Helga mumbled back.

'Close your eyes,' said Elspeth, smacking them both on the back of the head. 'Now, open them.'

000

Helga sat up.

Anatole screamed, _'OHMYFUCKINGHELLGOD!'_

She lay quickly back down. 'Er,' she said, after a moment, 'sorry.'

His face appeared, very slowly and cautiously, over hers. Helga smiled politely up at him.

'You,' he said, matter-of-factly, 'were dead.'

'Er...yes,' she said.

Anatole stared at her. His eyes were huge. 'Are you a...zombie?'

'Um.' She briefly checked her pulse and concluded: 'No. Don't think so.'

He released a short, stunned breath. Then he laughed. 'Alright,' he said, after a moment, 'that's all...OK...'

A rush of memories suddenly hit her, and she jumped to her feet. 'Richard,' she said, grabbing hold of Anatole's shirt, 'where's Richard? He was here, and he hit him, and-'

'He's in the medical wing!' Anatole cried, as she shook him violently.

'We don't have a medical wing!'

'We do now!'

She let him go. Anatole coughed and straightened the creases from his shirt. 'Don't worry. The games mistress is taking care of him, but he might be asleep for a while-'

'Where's Malfoy?' She grabbed his shirt again.

'He's dead!' he squeaked. 'We don't know who did it, but he's dead!'

'Oh good.'

'...Please get off me.'

Helga did no such thing. She surveyed her surroundings. A vivid red blur marked the spot where Richard had fallen, and there were a couple of indistinguishable footprints in the blood. 'Godric?'

'We found him by Malfoy - he's with the children.'

_Memories, memories... _'Salazar died,' she said, suddenly.

Anatole's eyes bulged. 'Did he?'

'Yes. But - well, he's better now. But we have to find him, we need to tell Ro-'

'Er,' said Anatole, diplomatically.

Helga stared him in the eyes. Her grip on his lapel increased. She said, 'Where the hell is Ro?'

0000

Sophia Bruntt - wrapped in every fine fur coat she could get her hands on - trudged down the hillside. Each step plunged her into the snow, but she barely noticed. She was a determined woman. Among other things.

'How much further?' Heather panted, a few steps behind.

'Not long,' Sophia sang, cheerfully.

'I hate this country,' Heather grumbled. 'I wish Xavier was still here, he'd make everything-'

'Xavier had to go away,' she said, skipping over a tree root. 'It doesn't matter now. I'm going to leave this cold, tiny island and look for better things. Husbands,' she added, excitedly, 'lots of husbands. And babies! And then Cray will love me lots and lots.'

Heather came to a halt, staring at the back of her head in disgust. Her hand tightened around her wand. 'Maybe _I_ should look for a husband,' she said, 'on my own.' She pulled the wand out, slowly.

Sophia turned to her gleefully. 'Nonsense, you should come with me.'

'Oh yes?' She grinned. 'Why?'

Sophia pointed her wand at Heather's throat and sang, 'I've always wanted a chihuahua.'

0000

Godric did his best impersonation of smiling cheerfully. Following a freezing, shirtless walk down to Hogsmeade with a child under each arm, this wasn't exactly easy.

He sat by a crackling fire in what could only be described as a _delightful_ little pub. There was a quaint painting of a hog's head over the door, enchanted to smile and wink at passer-bys. It was here the children and staff had gathered following their escape, and here he was going to stay until his muscles thawed out.

So very, incredibly sleepy...

'Mister?'

He opened one eye. A twelve year old boy was regarding him suspiciously.

Godric said, 'Yes, young lad?'

'Can we go home? It's weird.'

'Certainly not,' said Godric. He pulled a blanket tighter around his shoulder and said, 'These people have been very kind to us, and we certainly won't be rushing back to Hogwarts until the danger is cleared. Do you understand?'

The child scratched his ear and said, 'Shouldn't you be fighting the danger?'

'Piss off,' he said, mildly.

The boy scowled, but obediently did so. He was replaced almost immediately by a smiling woman with a tray of drinks, who said, 'Awww, bless his little heart.'

Godric sat up. The woman could be accurately described by the phrase "lusty bar wench": she was rosy-cheeeked, tousle-haired and significantly breasty (not that Godric would ever be crude enough to acknowledge the fact). He said, 'Ah...hello.'

'Allo, love.' She grinned. 'My name's Violet. What's yours?'

'Godric,' he said, a little more high-pitched and un-manly than he'd intended. 'Godric Gryffindor.'

Violet offered her hand and said, 'Nice to meet you, Godric. Can I get you anything?'

'Er...' He looked down at himself, and said, 'Some trousers?'

She giggled. 'Ooh, such a waste that would be!'

'Hee hee hee,' Godric agreed, nervously. He mentally slapped himself afterwards.

'I'll see what I can get you Godric, 'ow about that?'

'Er...thank you,' he managed, articulately. Then: 'And perhaps I could request your company, for a drink or two?'

Violet flushed. 'My word! Indeed you may, Mr Godric, indeed you may!'

She bounced away. Godric watched for a moment or two, realised he was doing it, and quickly looked away. A grin crept gradually over his face. Life felt like - life felt like something quite _nice_, all of a sudden...

Not too far away, the twelve-year-old boy turned to his companion and said, 'He _does_ know it's a brothel, doesn't he?'

The girl shrugged. 'He's being a bit brazen if he does.'

The boy stared at Godric with disbelief as he grinned, warming his hands before the fire. 'I mean,' he said, 'Mr Ferrybridge is over there getting a lap dance. He _must_ know. Right?'

000

And then...

'Rowena?'

She was in a sorry state: blood-splattered, black-eyed, snot-nosed, fetal and barely conscious. She'd read books about this kind of thing. About heroines enduring day-long battles and coming out of it with only a fine scratch and a hair out of place.

Turns out, that wasn't quite so realistic.

He cleared his throat and tried again:

'Ravenclaw?'

'Mmf,' she croaked, bowing her head further into her chest. 'Go away.'

'I'm sure you don't mean that.'

Pause. Long one.

She didn't look up, but said, 'Salazar?'

'I'd understand if you did, mind. I'm a bit smelly in the shirt department.'

'You're alive, then.'

'Don't sound so disappointed. There's time yet.'

'OK.'

He gave a short laugh. '"OK?"'

'OK. Good.'

'That's more like it.'

'I think...' She looked at him and he looked at her - bloody, black-eyed, snotty - and she concluded, 'I think I'm going to be sick.'

'That'll make a change...OK, eugh. I mean - there, there.'

'Stop patting me.'

'Sorry.'

Another one of those awkward pausey things.

'Ravenclaw?'

'Mmf?'

'Helga's alive. Again.'

And another.

'Rowena?'

'You...are a magnificent bastard.'

'Well, you're half right.'

And then, in-keeping with the theme of heroines post-battle, she fainted.


	24. Chapter 24: Virtuoso

**Chapter 24: Virtuoso**

Several hours had passed.

Not quite enough for everything to be Back To Normal, but perhaps that was a blessing. There was something quite comfortable in that hovering bubble between the end of the world and business as usual.

Rowena woke up a few times.

This was strange, as she had absolutely no recollection of being asleep. But one moment she'd be remembering meetings in libraries and summer evenings and cupboards and conversations on a rooftop and throwing spoons at a sausage, and the next she was looking up at a different face: Helga, concerned and smiling; Anatole, anxious and hovering; Godric, awkward and sympathetic.

She opened her eyes now and saw Richard, tucked neatly into the bed opposite her. He waved weakly.

She said, 'Good god, you look awful.'

He said, 'You're no oil painting yourself, you horrid bitch.'

And then she must have fallen asleep again, because when she opened her eyes the sun was up and Richard was gone.

Salazar was there instead.

Automatically, she checked that her breasts were tucked in.

'Er,' she said, having confirmed their security, 'hello.'

He was sat - well, propped, really - in a chair by her bed, looking a little dopey and tired. He'd changed his attire, which was considerate, though splashes of browning blood dried across his face.

'Hello,' he said hoarsely - then, clearing his throat - 'hello. Morning.'

'Morning?' she said, uncertainly. She pulled the blanket a little further over her face. Hair, bad. Face, bad. Clothing, odorous. Situation, unideal. 'Where am I?'

'Such a cliche,' said Salazar, disapprovingly.

'Sorry.'

'It's the medical wing.'

'Oh?' She glanced around. 'Didn't know we had one.'

'We didn't. But needs must.' He poked her in the face.

Rowena winced. 'What did you do that for?'

'To stop you falling asleep.'

She rubbed the prodded cheek. 'Ow. Really wasn't necessary.'

'Do you want to see my scars?' he asked, brightly.

'Not really,' she said.

'Oh, come on,' he insisted, 'they're exciting.'

'Meugh.'

Then they looked at each other. It was an odd experience, Rowena thought. Maybe it was her horizontal angle, or the settling shell-shock, or the fact that, for the first time, there was nothing stopping her from grabbing his face and jubilantly licking it. (Not that she would, her brain added. We've established that men don't like it when you do that.)

But most likely, it was because he was _smiling_. Properly. A small one, yes, but it reached his eyes. And he was looking back, and he was covered in blood, and yes that was weird, but sometimes you just need to accept the best you can get.

'I don't get it,' she said, eventually. 'How is it you look better than me, and _you _died?'

'Twice,' he added, smugly.

'Don't boast.'

'Shush. Come on, let me show you my scars.'

'Don't really want to-'

'Yes you do.' After a moment of awkward manoeuvring, he pulled his shirt up to the neck, revealing two jagged white scars on the right side of his torso. They moved very slightly as he breathed and, to the naive eye, could have healed years ago.

Rowena stared.

'Well?' he asked, proudly. 'What do you think?'

She snapped out of it. 'Sorry. I was distracted by nipple.'

He pulled his shirt down a little, and muttered, 'Deviant.'

'Nice scars though,' she said, coughing to cover her embarrassment. 'Very...scarry.'

'That one's yours,' Salazar explained, pointing to the lower of the two. 'Shaped a bit like a lightning bolt.'

Rowena winced. 'Eugh. Put it away.'

He looked hopefully to her chest and said, 'Don't suppose you've got any scars...?'

'No,' she said, sternly, 'and I wouldn't show you if I did. It takes me forty minutes just to get my dress off.'

'I've got all day.'

'Shush.' She giggled. 'Another time.'

Salazar gawped. 'What?'

'Let's not be prudish,' she said, calmly countering his hysterical coughing fit, 'one we've been medically examined for possible cardiac issues, I'm having you.'

'Right,' he said, in a surprisingly high-pitched tone. He cleared his throat. 'Right. Right. OK.'

Rowena laughed then, hysterically. After a confused few seconds, Salazar nervously joined in.

Then she sobered up and said, 'I'm not kidding.'

'Right.' He coughed. 'No.'

She beamed. 'Glad we've got that all cleared up.'

0000

Several months passed.

Things were about as back to normal as ever, which wasn't really saying much. Especially considering the occasion of a very busy staff meeting.

'I'm not doing any more bloody cookery,' said Rowena, slamming her fist against the table to emphasise her point.

An elderly Beard winced, carefully raising his hand. 'If I may?'

Rowena growled. He took this as a positive cue.

'I think,' he said, delicately, 'that your particular talents might be better suited to another area of magical life.' The world held its breath. Behind Rowena, Salazar desperately signaled for him not to continue.

Her eyes narrowed. 'Go on?'

'Perhaps,' said the Beard, 'possibly, something in the realm of...needlework?'

There were thirty-five people in the staff room, Godric very quickly calculated, and four tables between Rowena and the offending Professor. If as little as six tutors intervened, there was a forty per cent chance that the Professor could leave the room with eighty per cent of his reproductive organs.

He braced himself.

Very quietly, with her head held high, Rowena said, 'I will be teaching transfiguration from now on.'

'Excellent idea,' said Anatole, quickly.

'Jolly good,' said Helga.

'Like it,' said Richard, nodding enthusiastically, 'can't think of anything better.'

The Beard assumed a fight-or-flight position. He concentrated very intently on holding Rowena's gaze. 'Erm,' he said, squeakily, 'are you, er...are you...you know...good at it?'

She pointed her wand at him, eyes narrowed, and said, 'I could check, if you like?'

Later, as the Beard was escorted from the room with wide, staring eyes, Salazar swung his legs happily over the table and said, 'I like it when she does that.'

Richard said, 'Don't make me smack you, in front of all these people.'

'Grr,' he continued, approvingly, 'feisty.'

0000

A few more months. A noticeable drop in burnt pastries.

'_Oh_,' said Helga, sitting heavily into her office chair, 'shat and buggery.'

Richard was currently half-way through marking an essay titled _The Joy of Flan_. As it transpired, he'd made a rather impressive replacement for Rowena in the cookery department.

He'd also worked very hard on growing a beard and cutting his hair, which Helga found most satisfactory.

He dragged his mind away from flan and said, 'Yes dear?'

'Shat and buggery,' said Helga, again.

'I see.' Tick, tick, double tick and a smiley face. _Good effort! _God, he was good at this. 'Anything in particular?'

'Babies,' said Helga, wearily.

'What about them?'

Then he looked up.

Helga sighed. 'At least one, anyway. About sixteen weeks.'

Richard said, '...Oh?'

She winced. 'Is that OK?'

Richard opened and closed his mouth a few times. Eventually he spluttered a laugh, and said, 'Absolutely! This is - yes. Good yes. Much very, I think it's good a very much. Jesus. Yes.'

Helga grinned. 'Lovely.'

0000

A year.

An entire bloody _year_.

Rowena rolled over in bed and said, '_Muffletassel_.'

Salazar raised an eyebrow and said, 'What?'

'_Mmpf_.'

He poked her impatiently in the ear.

Rowena kicked about for a moment, punched her pillow and eventually opened her eyes. Salazar was sat up beside her, looking down at her in every sense of the word.

She blinked. 'Sorry?'

'Muffletassel,' he repeated, matter-of-factly. 'Care to explain?'

A wave of remembrance hit her at once. 'Oh god,' she groaned, pushing her hair from her face, 'it was awful. There was a man, but he was shaped like a horse.'

Salazar blinked. 'Sorry?'

'Like a horse in a man outfit,' she insisted, through a yawn. 'Really big neck. Big shoulders. Eugh.' She shook her head. 'Creepy.'

'And muffletassel?'

'Hm?' She shrugged. 'Dunno. I was probably trying to say nipple tassel.'

'Ah,' said Salazar, as if this explained everything. He returned to his book. 'Strange human being.'

'Mmpf,' said Rowena again, clinging to his waist so she was at eye level with his scars. 'Sleepy. Why are you still awake?'

'Because it's only half-past eleven,' he said, putting an arm around her, 'and I'm not ninety years old.'

'You're a vampire,' said Rowena, 'that's what it is.'

'Speaking of which, Anatole flew into another window.'

Rowena winced. 'Oh dear.'

'He's starting to scare the children. They think he's a flying pervert.'

'Bless him,' said Rowena. 'No pun intended. I thought that it'd be good for him, getting in touch with his vampyric heritage-'

'He landed on a fourth year,' said Salazar, closing his book. 'She thought he was going for an elaborate grope.'

'Ah.' She shrugged. 'OK, no more flying.'

'Thank you.'

'Go to sleep now,' she instructed, patting him vaguely in the chest. 'I like you better when you're unconscious.'

'Wench,' he muttered, obediently settling into a horizontal position. Rowena beamed, closing her eyes and appropriating his shoulder for a rather pointy pillow. He exhaled a laugh.

'Don't laugh,' said Rowena, firmly.

'Don't be laughable,' he retorted, pushing the hair from her eyes.

She yawned, and managed, 'Uv 'oo.'

Salazar closed his eyes. 'I love you too.'

0000

And then, suddenly, years had flown by.

Not _flown by_, exactly - some had dragged, some had sauntered, some had skipped. One or two of them had even swaggered. But twelve years had inarguably passed, and Rowena wasn't entirely sure how it had happened.

Time flies when you're having fun, Richard had reminded her, spoon-feeding baby number three. Baby number three kicked him in the eye.

Hogwarts had been a little wonky, for a year or two. Some parents snatched their children out of its dangerous grasp; others thought the excitement would be good for them. Then a midnight stealth attack on Sarah Summers School of Sorcery had rid the world of alternatives, and things started to pick up.

Children joined them at eleven and left at eighteen. Now _that_ was bizarre.

More bizarre? Rowena aged along with them. She shuddered at the thought. She was thirty-one. That's very nearly _grown up_.

It was lunchtime. It was summer. This was a good combination.

Rowena sat on a small roll of hill, pastry in hand, sunbathing. True, her attempts to sunbathe inevitably lead to first an increase in freckles and then a nice smack of red in the cheeks, but every year she challenged the odds.

Her back was against Salazar's. There were a couple of very good and practical reasons for this. The first was the improvement of posture: Salazar was a boney man, and leaning against him was a little like sitting in a corrective chair. The second was that the position afforded them a very adequate three hundred and sixty degree view of the Sprogs.

Sprogs. Rowena shuddered again (causing Salazar to elbow her in the ribs). What a terrifying thought - indeed, what a terrifying reality.

First had come Helga (and Richard, how disgusting) - Rhinannon Hufflepuff, because they may have been married but no chance in hell was Helga going to call herself a Ravenclaw. Too creepy.

And then Godric, surprising everyone with the town's resident lusty wench and materialising twins. _A boy and a girl_, he announced proudly, with a grin that added _and no puppies!_

The boy seemed normal, Rowena decided, some time later. Not quite shaping up to be the muscle-bound hero Godric had wanted, but nice enough. The girl was a little wild, occasionally barked and hankered for raw meat, but aside from that she seemed basically acceptable. So overall, it could have been worse.

And then Helga again, this time a boy. Rowena put it down to attention-seeking.

And then _again_, which just confirmed it. Another boy. Still a baby at present, but definitely shifty-looking.

And that, thought Rowena, was it.

Or would have been.

'How did this happen?' Rowena asked, nudging the back of Salazar.

Salazar looked over to Helena: seven years old, zero front teeth and a giddy smile as she spun around on the spot.

He said, 'Vodka and the missionary position.'

She nudged him again. '_Language_.'

'What?' he said, defensively. 'She's worse than me for swearing. Some really inventive stuff,' he added, with a touch of admiration.

Helena was small. That was to be expected, she supposed: seven year olds generally were. She was also something of a surprise, but nonetheless appreciated.

_Rowena Ravenclaw_, Rowena thought to herself, _mother_. That's some serious business, that is. _Salazar Slytherin, father_. Good god, the poor child! _Helga Hufflepuff, official tutor of cleanliness, cookery, needlework and hunter-gathering_, because _someone _had to teach her that stuff.

Little Helena.

She sighed. She really wished that _that_ was the weird bit.

But the weird bit happened six years ago, when the ground was still frozen and the nights were endless. The weird bit was the tapping at the window, and the woman from the village with a bemused expression and a crumpled letter in her hand...

_Dearest Salazar and his whore,_

_Success! I met the most delightful man, ever so rich, and fertile! Plus he's a lord or something noble like that. Had a child! I know, right? However, things are getting boring so if you don't mind...? Ta.._

_Sophia and Chuchi (the chihuahua!)_

_xxx_

And then, the little pale-faced boy with dark brown eyes...

Cryil Slytherin. Now maybe eight years old; possibly nine. It was hard to carbon date him precisely.

His appearance had sent Salazar into a near-catatonic state for several days while Rowena and Helga poked and prodded the new baby for booby traps. Long, serious discussions had taken place.

Rowena resorted to poking Salazar's face to let him know the outcome.

What options did they have? Cyril became Helena's older brother, and as long as neither of them remembered differently, that was going to have to work.

Currently, Helena hit him with a rather sizable rock.

'Helena!' said Rowena, scoldingly. 'What have I told you?'

She looked to her parents apologetically. As she did, Cyril whacked her with a branch.

'Good lord,' said Salazar, through a sigh, 'they have no imagination.'

'The first time we met,' Rowena reminded him, 'you threw a potato at me.'

'Exactly! Potatoes are unexpected.'

Helena chased Cyril towards the lake.

'Do you think she'll catch him?' asked Rowena.

'They'll be fine.'

'I know. I'm just considering placing a small wager on her athletic abilities.'

Salazar sat up. 'Two sickles says he gets away.'

'Done.'

'Run faster!' Salazar shouted, moving to Rowena's side. 'No, don't look at me - eyes ahead! Run, Cyril!'

'Stop encouraging them,' said Rowena, sharply, 'it's cheating. And no magic!'

He put his wand away. 'He's going to fall over that rock.'

'Yep.'

Cyril fell over the rock.

Helena attempted to strangle him with a length of wool.

Salazar sighed. 'Two sickles?'

'Leave it,' she said, 'you can pay me back some other way.'

'Oh yes?' he said, lips curling.

'Not like that,' she said.

'Damn.'

'That would make you a prostitute.

'Well, I won't tell if you won't. Fight _back_, Cyril! She's got _asthma!_'

'It's so nice,' said Rowena, sighing happily, 'being able to place bets on our own children, instead of other people's. Isn't it?'

He smiled and patted her hand. 'To be honest, I think that was my main incentive in procreation.'

'Think we'll ever have another?'

'God no.'

'Good.' Cyril escaped and ran a short while. Helena tackled him to the ground. Rowena sighed. 'I worry about them sometimes, you know.'

'Hm? Why?'

'Well, you know...' She sighed again. 'Like I said, the first time we met, you threw a potato at me.'

Salazar looked at Rowena, and over to the children. He said, 'Please don't imply what I think you're implying.'

'OK,' said Rowena.

Having conceded defeat, Cyril joined Helena in the grass and began to thread daisy chains.

Salazar rested his head on Rowena's shoulder. 'Only bad things can come of this, Ro.'

'I'm probably wrong,' she assured him, quickly. 'He comes from noble blood. He'll much more likely grow old disgracefully and take up with a harem of Flemish princesses, or something.'

'Yeah?'

'Yes. I mean, he's a _Baron_.' She smiled. 'Come on. What harm could he ever do?'

Helena sat on him.

And life was basically perfect.


End file.
